


Find Your Truth

by Romiress



Series: Find Your Reality [2]
Category: Batman: Arkham (Video Games)
Genre: After Getting Together, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dealing with Family Fallout, Discussion of substance abuse, M/M, POV Multiple, Post-Batman: Arkham Knight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:21:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 34,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26738782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Romiress/pseuds/Romiress
Summary: Since being all but confirmed as the vigilante Nightwing, Dick's life has changed, and not for the better. His nighttime excursions have shrunk almost to zero, and a trip out of country to track down a stolen piece of Wayne Enterprises tech is a rare chance to test his skills.When he goes against a brand new Santa Priscan vigilante, Dick has no idea what he's about to find.
Relationships: Bane/Bruce Wayne
Series: Find Your Reality [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1946158
Comments: 64
Kudos: 74





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OkayAristotle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OkayAristotle/gifts).



It's Barbara, of course, who makes the call. Despite everything that's happened between them, the fact is that when Barb says he needs to be somewhere, Dick still makes a point of being there.

The Clocktower is Barbara's main haunt, a place of privacy and the main base of operations for any and all vigilante activity in Gotham. Dick arrives in civilian clothes, taking the elevator up, and is pleased to see that Tim's already there, chatting with Barb near the newly upgraded computer she insisted on buying.

Dick tips his head back, eyes scanning the rafters, and spots a lone figure twenty or so feet up. Jason's presence isn't unwelcome—if anything, the exact opposite, because Dick would love to see him around more—but he's never moved past acting like a scared animal, skittish and quick to dart away if there's any more than the slightest hint of attention towards him.

Dick waves, and Jason ignores him completely.

Jim Gordon's the last to arrive, coming in the same route Dick himself took. He's both retired and very tired, looking more weary by the second as Barbara spins around, taking the four of them in before getting straight to the point.

"We've got a lead."

"On which one this time?" Gordon asks, folding his arms over his chest. He's been a reluctant ally of theirs in the past, but in the new post-Batman world, he's become infinitely more important. He knows things they don't. People will talk to him about things they'd never _think_ about speaking about to someone like Dick or Tim.

Barbara spins back around, pulling up visual aids as she explains. It's clear to Dick she isn't explaining for Gordon, who's already aware of the break-in, but instead for Jason, whose presence at their meetings is always deeply spotty. He's there sometimes, missing others, and no one's allowed to ask where he's been.

"Three months ago there was a break-in at a Wayne Enterprises building. A cache of experimental technology—including a bunch of what we'd consider _bat-gadgets_ —were taken. We've been tracking them down, but the guy behind the break-in, a disgruntled former employee, had already sold the majority of them by the time we caught him."

Making sure Jason has all the information is a bit like playing the world's most awkward guessing game, because it's hard to figure out what he does or doesn't know, and impossible to ask him to clarify for them.

Dick tries anyway.

"What have we gotten back?"

"A bit more than half. All of the stuff that could be used as weaponry, so I assumed we were in the clear."

"You saying that means we aren't," Gordon says, looking that much more uncomfortable. "How bad is it?"

"Not that bad." Barbara's attempt to be reassuring clearly doesn't work on her father, so she explains. "One of the most important pieces that went missing was... basically a high-tech invisibility cloak. Hides the person from cameras passively, and can let them disappear in low lighting conditions. I've kept tabs on relevant keywords since it went missing, but it hasn't shown up so far until now."

She pulls up a newspaper article in Spanish, and even a quick skim makes it obvious to Dick why she thinks they're connected: a local figure going by _Rojo_ who was recorded vanishing from sight when confronted by soldiers.

"They assume we know who Rojo is," Dick notes, glancing to Barbara. "Where's this from?"

"The capital of Santa Prisca, and they assume that because everyone on Santa Prisca knows who Rojo is by now. Four months ago, a man named Cristian Rojo was involved in an altercation with Santa Priscan soldiers. A soldier tried to take advantage of Rojo's wife, Rojo defended her, the soldier ended up dead. The military made an example of him, and both Rojo and his wife were executed for what happened."

"And yet he's apparently using our stolen technology," Tim points out, frowning up at the article as if expecting to find some answers within it.

"Santa Prisca took the couple's son and put him in one of the prisons, despite him being only five years old. Then, a week later, the officials involve suddenly reverse course. The couple's son is taken _out_ of prison and placed into the care of his aunt and uncle. Rumors start spreading that Rojo came back from the dead, and people start spotting him around the island. They say he's a shade with bright red eyes, and that he isn't limited by gravity. People say they've seen him walk up walls, and hang from the ceiling and all sorts of strange things."

"What happened to the kid?" Gordon asks before Dick can manage.

"Entire family went into hiding. General sentiment seems to be that Bane was behind that."

"Do we think Bane's behind Rojo?" Dick isn't sure why he bothers asking, really. He's seen things that can't be easily explained, things that others would consider monsters, but when there's an easier mundane explanation, that's what he prefers.

"Smells like him," Tim says. "I don't like the idea of him using a dead man's name to do it, but everyone knows Santa Prisca's government is mindbogglingly corrupt. I haven't really been keeping up with Bane's _stuff,_ though."

From above, Jason speaks for the first time.

"He hasn't been in Gotham. After Arkham City, his people all left, and no one's heard from him since."

They're all silent for a moment, but Jason doesn't expand.

Of all of them, Jason's the only one that's _really_ still active as a vigilante. Neither Tim nor Dick are capable of going out any longer, their personal lives scrutinized and constantly under a microscope. It's impossible for them to go out into the world at night dressed in gear and even _think_ they'd get away with it.

Which only leaves Jason. Jason, who the wider world doesn't even realize is still alive. Jason, who can patrol as Red Hood without hesitation. Barbara helps, but in many ways Jason is out there handling things alone.

"So what's next?" Dick makes himself say. "Assuming Bane—and this Rojo guy—have the cloak, what are we going to do about it?"

"Get it back, ideally," Barbara says. "Bane seems to be spending his time making things hard for the cartels, but he's still not a good guy, and there's no telling what he'll decide to do once he's finished handling Santa Prisca. Drug exporting from the island has dropped to a fraction of what it once was, but Bane hasn't done anything about Santa Prisca's government. He might be in bed with them."

"If he is, wouldn't this Rojo thing be... well, counter-intuitive?"

"There's a lot of possible angles. He might not be working with Rojo at all. Maybe they're a third a third party Bane's tolerating. Unfortunately, this whole thing is so secretive there's no way to find anything more without being there in person."

Which means someone's going to have to go.

Which means, of course, it's going to be _him._

Jason can't—Gotham needs Red Hood, and there's no one to take his place. Tim and Barbara _maybe_ could, but they'd draw more attention. Gordon is, frankly, too old to go jumping around Santa Prisca looking for some mysterious red-eyed vigilante. Dick's the only one who can both manage to do the job _and_ do so without attracting a ton of attention.

Everyone in the room turns to look at him, and Dick lets out a small sigh.

"...Guess I'm going to Santa Prisca."


	2. Chapter 2

Dick rarely admits it, but the truth is that he hates planes.

Maybe he shouldn't. There's nothing inherently wrong with the _theory_ of planes, but every time he has to fly somewhere, he ends up feeling antsy and frustrated. In a car, he's in control. On a bike, he's in control. Even on a train, where he is firmly _not_ in control, he at least has the option of bailing out.

On a plane?

His options are limited, to say the least.

He's stuck in a glorified tin can, surrounded by dozens of people whose identities he doesn't know and who's motives he can only guess at, and _any_ of them could be trying to kill him.

Or, for that matter, any of them could _recognize_ him.

He's travelling under his own name, but he's made an attempt at a low-key disguise. The fewer people who recognize him, the better, because the fewer people who know he's in Santa Prisca... well, the less likely he's going to draw attention he desperately doesn't want. He lands without any apparent trouble, and gives a nice story to the customs officer about going on vacation at a local resort. They seem happy to have someone willing to spend what they no doubt assume is a fair amount of money, and then Dick's through, emerging into Santa Prisca's capital.

He wasn't lying: Dick's got a room booked at a local resort, right on the beach, and he _does_ plan to enjoy at least part of his time in Santa Prisca relaxing.

He's just also got another agenda while he's there.

Santa Prisca's largest newspaper has an online presence, but it doesn't have a full set of digital archives. Dick (well, Barbara) managed to recover _some_ stories from their server that mentioned Rojo, but none of the early ones.

You can't hack which isn't there, and their server only has records going back a few weeks.

Dick knows he's running on a limited amount of time. Eventually, someone's going to leak his presence back to Bane. Eventually, Bane's men are going to want to check in and see what he's up to. The more information he can collect before that happens, the better.

So he _doesn't_ go straight to the resort. Instead, he heads to the main branch of the library, ignores the confused looks he gets, and requests to see their newspaper archives. Every library worth their salt has some, and luckily, that one does too.

Apparently his presence is unusual enough that a librarian stops by multiple times to check and see how he's doing, even asking if they can help him find anything. Dick gives them a little story about looking for an old friend, and then is left alone to dig through the archives.

The newspaper has a blatant government slant, so it takes a lot of reading between the lines to follow along. The story of Cristian Rojo, for example, provides a bunch of details about his supposed anti-government activities, including mentions of his wife's involvement. The details are all wrong—obviously fabricated, because if Rojo was half as blatant as they'd implied, even a government as inept as Santa Prisca's would have realized what he was up to—and stink of an after the fact framing.

Dick doesn't believe that the _Rojo_ he's after is the same man—his execution was semi-public and witnessed by a lot of people—but knowing the story feels important anyway, considering that the person he _is_ after has opted to take the man's name. There's probably a meaning there, even if Dick hasn't figured it out yet.

As far as the newspaper indicates, Rojo doesn't make an appearance for almost two months after Rojo's death, but when he _does_ appear, the reporting is... suspicious. It doesn't treat Rojo as a new thing, but instead as something the readers should already know about. The obvious conclusion is that there's some reason why they weren't reporting on him before, but it's too early (and he has too little data) to draw any conclusions.

Really, that's the summary of _everything_ Dick does on the first day: getting a lot of information, but not being able to draw any conclusions.

At least the resort is nice. It's the sort of plush accommodations that are clearly intended for the wealthy from overseas, with all sorts of amenities that Dick's happy to enjoy in the name of _blending in._ If going on a snorkeling expedition with a little group is going to mean he draws less attention? So be it.

Plus, Santa Prisca has some _gorgeous_ oceans.

A part of Dick feels strange to be enjoying it at all. His entire life since he became Robin feels like one long endless string of stressful situations without anything even close to downtime, and yet the past year has been the exact opposite: nothing _but_ downtime.

He can't be Nightwing if the public knows he's Nightwing. He can't go out and do the things he's spent so long training to do with all eyes on him. It hasn't been a vacation, but it hasn't been the _usual,_ either. It's just been _strange._

Lying on his back in a pool in Santa Prisca, staring up at the sun feels alien. Like all of a sudden he's stopped being Dick Grayson who's also Nightwing and started being Dick Grayson who's _just_ Dick Grayson.

It feels like this is the life he was supposed to have when Bruce took him in all those years ago. A life of opulence, luxury, and ignorance.

Pretending like he isn't aware of what's happening around him.

Because as nice as the resort is, Dick knows it's a lie. The Santa Priscan government is impossibly corrupt, taking advantage of their people without hesitation. Everything _looks_ bright and shiny, but Dick's well aware that what's on offer to him right there isn't something the common man would be able to access.

His presence there is putting money in the coffers of some of the Santa Priscan elite, and if he had a choice, he wouldn't be at a resort at all. It's hard to put those thoughts aside as he floats, but there's nothing else for him to do.

All he can do is wait.


	3. Chapter 3

The only way Dick's going to get any answers is by asking people, and he doesn't get a chance to do so until the second day. He's sure _someone_ has already heard about his presence, but he hopes it hasn't spread too far.

He needs time. Even if eventually he's sure he's going to have to deal with Bane, he's hoping to do so with some proverbial ammo in hand.

The following morning, though, there's a trip to a _local market,_ which amounts to a trumped up tourist trap. It takes a significant amount of effort not to roll his eyes as his fellow tourists ooh and ahh over overpriced souvenir's that are being sold as homemade, but no effort at all to note that they're being watched by security from the resort.

Even so, it's a half-hearted sort of observation, more to make sure that no one gets lost and it's easy for Dick to slip away and into the capital at large.

Finding information is infinitely easier when dealing with familiar territory, but people are still people, even hundreds of miles away.

So Dick does exactly what he'd have done in Gotham: find a bar with people looking for some cash to get a few more rounds and ply them for information.

It isn't hard to find a bar, and it isn't hard to find a local who's willing to talk in exchange for Dick buying a few rounds. Alcohol is cheaper than any private detective Dick knows, and his supposed interest in life in Santa Prisca makes it easy to steer the conversation. He hears a lot about stuff he doesn't care about, but eventually the old man mentions Rojo in passing, and Dick gets a chance to learn a bit more.

"Rojo?" He asks in English, playing the idiot tourist who barely knows any Spanish in the likely foolish hope that someone nearby might say something in Spanish assuming he doesn't understand. "Red?"

"For his eyes," the man says with an all-too-solemn nod. "He's a demon. Made of shadows, with eyes as red as the fires of hell."

Dick makes a point of looking surprised, as if the whole thing is entirely new information. Drunk people aren't particularly difficult to fool, and people in general are even more so when you're playing directly into their built in assumptions. They look at him and see an idiot American tourist, and he's happy to present that front to them.

"He's not _really_ a demon though, right?"

The old man shakes his head furiously. At least one person nearby actually seems to inch away from the conversation, wary.

"Rojo was a man who upset the military. They killed him, and he made a deal with the devil to return and take revenge. When he first appeared, people thought he was only after those who had wronged him, but lately he's been going after anyone."

Someone the next table over laughs, and another man—a friend of Dick's guide—drags his stool over to join them.

"Ignore him," he tells Dick. "Local gangs have been attacking each other and blaming it on Rojo. The only thing the _real_ Rojo did was terrorize the governor to get his son returned to his family. Everything else has just been the cartels fighting each other and blaming it on a children's story."

It's all good information, not necessarily because it's the truth, but because it's what people _think..._ and what they're willing to say. Dick buys them both drinks, listening to them bicker over the validity of it, and when the conversation turns to other things, Dick lets it.

He has a lot to think about. There's the question of the resort, of course: is he going back there tonight and checking in as normal? It feels like a race against time, because the slower he goes the higher the chance that Bane's going to find him. Dick doubts Bane knew who he was before Bruce was outed, but there's no way he doesn't know _now._ The whole world more or less knows... they just can't prove it.

The last thing Dick wants is Bane having the upper hand, which decides things for him. He heads into the market once his new _friends_ are done with their drinks, and buys what he'll need. Something sturdy to use as a weapon. A pair of large goggles intended for swimming to protect his eyes. A scarf he can wrap around his face to serve as a mask. A change of clothes and a bag.

By the time he has everything, night's already starting to fall. Reaching the rooftops is easy, and from there it all feels familiar. The layout is different, but a city at night is a city at night. It's easy enough to figure out which parts of the city sleep when night falls, and which parts come alive with activity. One part, not far from the city center, lights up with activity, and Dick finds himself a nice secure alclove to watch from.

There are women walking the street with everything on offer. Shops selling cheap cigarettes and alcohol.

He's surprised by the lack of drug dealers, or at least the lack of ones he can pick out. He supposes it speaks to Bane's control over the area, because from what he understands Bane isn't big on drugs at all.

Dick can't blame him.

There's a building he guesses is a casino, and a few apartments above the strip that he thinks are probably being used for less than legal dealings. He has no way of knowing where Rojo might show up, but Dick figures that right there is as good a place as any, so he stays put as people come and go. Maybe someone will say something, or maybe something will happen. Either way, he'll have more information, and a better feel for how strong Bane's control is at the very least.

He doesn't have long to wait on that front. Maybe a half hour after the sun vanishes he spots two men walking through the area who part the crowd with their presence. Nothing obviously marks them as Banes, but Dick knows the type: strong, controlled, and far less aggressive than he's used to seeing from people who work for gangs. They're making no trouble at all, which means the fact that everyone pulls away from them is a matter of reputation.

Dick leans forward, watching them go. They pass into the casino first, and then into one of the houses Dick thought was suspicious. He's so intent on them that he _almost_ doesn't notice the trouble that's coming for him.

_Almost._

Something moves two rooftops down, and Dick pulls back from the edge, pulling the short club from his waistband. It's definitely a _person,_ and as Dick sizes them up, the other person on the rooftop stands.

_Rojo._

The rumors are pretty accurate. What he's wearing is loose, drapped over him to avoid any sort of real sillhouette. Dick would defiitely say _an adult,_ and probably _male,_ but even that much is questionable. It could easily be a woman using padding on their gear to hide, and anything else beyond that is questionable. The fact that there's a light wind blowing, billowing their cloak only makes it that much harder to get a feel for them.

The eyes, though, are hard to miss. Twin pinpricks of red light glowing in the darkness. Mentally, Dick's running through how he'd set up a similar suit: something slim and form-fitting like his old Nightwing gear. The cloak would have to be loosely attached so that it can tear away, otherwise it'd be too much of a liability in combat. The eyes probably aren't where his eyes actually are: maybe on his forehead, or on his collarbones. Either way, they're probably able to be easily turned off, a quick toggle to let Rojo vanish.

It's a very smart setup, and Bane's obviously put a lot of thought into it. There's absolutely no way it's Bane in the suit, because there's not enough material in the world to disguise someone of Bane's size, but one of his men makes enough sense.

Everything fits.

What doesn't fit is _him,_ and Dick swears he sees Rojo cock his head as he stares at Dick. He must be a confusing sight: mostly casual clothes, wearing large goggles and a scarf wrapped around his face, hiding his features and disguising who he is. With a baton in one hand he's obviously armed, but he's also obviously not a member of Santa Prisca's military.

Dick has no idea what Rojo might be thinking, but his reaction's easy enough to read: Rojo starts to close the distance between them, his hands hidden in his cape and probably going for a weapon. Dick is, after all, a threat.

And then Rojo vanishes.

"Oh fuck me," Dick mutters to himself. Despite the fact that the _entire fucking point_ of him being in Santa Prisca was to get the cloak back, the fact that Rojo could just _go fucking invisible_ hadn't occured to him until that exact moment.

The only mercy is that it's not _true_ invisibility. It's more like heavy camoflauge, making Rojo's already difficult to spot outline even harder to recognize. Dick can see the movement more than the man himself, and falls back as he tries to get a good feeling for it.

Not fast enough.

Rojo closes the distance _alarmingly_ fast, and Dick only just manages to duck under the swing. They're one move in and Dick's brain is already screaming at him to get the fuck out, because his brain can't figure out what he's even dodging. Rojo's probably fighting with just his fists, only he _doesn't know that for sure._

Everything about the fight is a nightmare. Rojo's fast and _skilled._ Maybe he should have gone straight to Bane and tried to negotiate. Maybe he should have shown up with some _firepower._ Either way, he made a mistake somewhere along the line, and he's going to be paying for it in flesh.

Dick manages to make contact, knocking Rojo's arm away, but whiffs his second blow. A fist cracks against his goggles, and Dick only _just_ manages to get clear.

He's too out of practice. Really, he's just fucked in every single way: outgeared, outskilled, and outmatched.

Dick rips the goggles off. All they're doing is blinding him, and his identity is the last thing he needs to worry about. If he gets caught, whoever catches him is going to know who he is. If he gets caught, he's doomed.

Really, he's probably doomed either way.

But if he _is_ , he's going to make Rojo fucking _work_ for it. He stands straight, holding his hand out in front of him, and makes a beckoning motion towards the bastard in front of him.

"Come at me."

Rojo does not come at him.

Rojo stands there, perfectly still, and stares at him. There's a tension between them that Dick doesn't understand, and he he adjusts his grip on his weapon, ready for an attack.

Instead, Rojo reaches up, pulling at the mask covering his face. It's a confusing, downright _bizarre_ motion, and Dick can't even guess at what's happening before the mask comes completely off, revealing Rojo's face.

Of all the people who might have been under the mask, Bruce Wayne is the last person Dick expected.


	4. Chapter 4

Dick stands on the far side of the roof, staring at him. His expression is one of pure, utter confusion, and Bruce is sure that his expression isn't much better.

Dick.

Dick, his _son,_ his eldest.

Dick, who he hasn't spoken to since his identity was forcibly revealed to the public.

Dick, who he still hasn't figured out what to say to.

His desk has a dozen drafts on it, and many of them are addressed to Dick in particular. Apologies for leaving. Apologies for being out of contact for so long. Apologies for not writing. Bruce hasn't yet found the words, and now he no longer has an option: Dick is right in front of him, and he can no longer put it off for another day and promise himself he'll find the words then.

"Bruce?"

Dick's voice cracks, the flood of emotion on his face almost painful to watch. Bruce has to fight not to avert his eyes as he tries to imagine what Dick must be thinking. What he must be _feeling._ What did Dick even think had happened to him?

After a moment, Bruce realizes that Dick must be angry. How can he _not_ be angry, after everything that's happened? Furious, even.

"You can hit me, if you'd like. I won't move."

He deserves whatever Dick wants to throw at him. He's done things that no apology is going to be able to make up for, and all he can do is stand there and wait to see what Dick does.

Dick stares at him for a long moment, and then moves, closing the distance between them. Bruce braces himself instinctively, preparing himself for the blow to come.

It doesn't.

Dick doesn't hit him. Instead, he pulls Bruce into a hug, burying his face in Bruce's shoulder. He might even—if Bruce saw right in the split second—be crying.

Somehow that's worse. A punch would clear the air. A punch he'd know how to deal with. A hug leaves him grasping at straws, struggling to understand what he should be saying.

"I'm sorry," is what he settles on. It isn't enough (it's _never_ going to be enough), but he supposes it's a start.

"You're going to be saying that a lot," Dick mumbles into his shoulder. "Now shut up and just... just let me process this."

Bruce does as he's asked: he shuts up and gives Dick the time he so desperately needs. If being silent is what Dick needs, then it's what Dick gets.

And Bruce has to admit to himself that he doesn't mind it. He's missed Dick, and even _before_ he left Gotham a part of him had mourned the fact that his little boy—the one he'd helped raise, who'd been willing to hug him—had grown up.

Being hugged feels nice.

If anything, he wishes it would last longer, because when Dick pulls back it feels like he's losing him all over again. Dick's expression is bouncing between emotions, from annoyed to relieved to upset to angry.

He has ever right.

"I— Jesus, Bruce, I have so many questions I don't even know where to start. _You're_ Rojo?"

Apparently Dick's done his homework, so Bruce simply nods.

Dick lets out a bevy of swears that would make Alfred's ears burn, reaching up to drag his hands through his hair, and then shakes his head again.

"We shouldn't be doing this... out here. On a rooftop, where anyone could find us. You're wanted— fuck, you're _doubly_ wanted."

Bruce wishes Dick knew how right he was.

"You've got to have a base or something," Dick says, reaching up to adjusts the scarf around his head. "We should talk there."

"You're not going to like it." Probably best to be up front about that, but Dick simply waves him off.

"I've already been put through the mental wringer. _Nothing_ could possibly surprise me at this point."

Bruce knows he's wrong, but he _also_ knows that Dick isn't going to react well to being told he's wrong. He's also right about the more important thing: they need to get off the roof and into a place where they can talk.

Bruce fits his mask back into place, clicks the red glow of his eyes off, and makes sure Dick's close enough to follow before heading off the roof. He's not going to take Dick all the way back to base— _no one_ goes back to base without Bane's approval—but they do have a headquarters of sorts in the city, and that's where Bruce heads.

Unfortunately, the small apartment isn't empty. Trogg's there, listening to the radio while he tinkers with some of Bruce's tech, and he glances up when Bruce lets himself in only to double take when he sees that Bruce isn't alone.

"I'm not bringing him here under duress," Bruce says before Trogg can go for the radio. "I just need a discrete place to talk, and the rooftop wasn't it."

Trogg squints at Dick as he comes in, and Dick squints right back at Trogg. The two are sizing each other up, and Bruce would really prefer they didn't. He likes Trogg, despite their rocky start, and the last thing he wants is for the two of them to start fighting.

"...I'll give you the room," Trogg says after a moment, sweeping his current project into a drawer and getting up. Bruce doesn't doubt for a second that he'll be stepping outside and contacting Bane, but there's nothing he can do. Bane will find out eventually. There's no hiding anything from him on Santa Prisca.

Dick watches Trogg go, squinting all the while. He at least waits until Trogg is gone before he turns back to Bruce, still squinting, and says what's on his mind.

"Why is he familiar? Why do I know him?"

"He's one of Bane's men. You probably remember him from that—he's a fairly distinct guy."

It's a joke, or an attempt at one, but Dick doesn't laugh.

"You _are_ with Bane? Really? _Bane?"_

Bruce can't let that go.

"I realize I've made a mistake not contacting you once I got back on my feet, but I owe Bane my life. He's not the person that you remember terrorizing Gotham. He's a changed man."

Dick's face twists, and Bruce knows that look: he doesn't believe Bruce. He probably thinks he's been brainwashed, or his arm's being twisted, or _something._ Bruce isn't even sure he can blame him, considering they're in _Bane's_ safehouse where _Bane's_ man was just working.

Bruce isn't even sure how to explain it to him. Instead, he sits down heavily, takes a deep breath, and tries to remember everything he's learned in his time on Santa Prisca.

"I know I don't have any right to ask, but... is everyone alright?"

"Alright? No. Physically alive and healthy? Yeah."

Bruce allows himself a sigh of relief.

"Alfred?"

"Stressed. Bruce, he— _all_ of us thought you were dead. After you stopped contacting him, he contacted us and told us what had happened. I flew to Europe and spent _weeks_ trying to track you down, and every time I got a lead it was like you vanished. And then you... you stopped accessing your accounts. You just dropped off the face of the earth. No contact. No anything. We all thought something had happened to you. Alfred thought you were— fuck, Bruce, I don't even know what I'm supposed to say. Why didn't you _contact_ us?"

Dick's hands tug at his hair, and he paces back and forth furiously, agitated beyond reason. All Bruce can do is give him at least some of the answers he deserves.

"I was in a dark place, and I... I lost contact with Alfred accidentally. A very dark place." He's already aware he's flubbing the explanation, but it's so much easier to say _I lost it accidentally_ and not _I was so drunk I vomited on my clothes and threw it out without realizing._ "I spiraled. It was—"

"What does that even _mean?"_ Dick rounds on him, frustration building. Bruce can't even blame him for that, because he doesn't know _anything_ that happened, and that's Bruce's fault.

"I didn't know who I was without Gotham. Without all of you. Without the cowl. So it was easier to feel like I was nothing at all. I drank, and then when that wasn't enough I looked to heavier substances, and then it just kept going. When Bane found me, a cartel was going to harvest my organs. I wasn't even... I wasn't even _aware."_

He could have died and he wouldn't have even noticed.

Dick's expression is pure horror.

"Bruce, I didn't—"

"I know. You didn't have any way of knowing. When Bane brought me back here, he did so simply because he felt it would be... undignified for me to die such an ignoble end. He nursed me back to health. Helped me get on my feet again."

"Because he wanted you to work for him, Bruce," Dick says. "You're done. You've helped him. Come _home."_

Dick's words cut a hole in his chest and tear out his heart. 

_Home._ For Bruce's entire life, home was a manor in Gotham. The city. The building. His life there.

But it isn't any longer.

"You know I can't."

They both know it. Bruce can't ever go back to Gotham. His life there is over.

But those four simple words seem to crack Dick in half. There are tears in his eyes again, and Bruce stands, crossing the room to pull Dick into a hug. Dick fights it, trying to push Bruce away, but this time Bruce doesn't let him, pulling him in tight anyway.

They both need the hug more than they need anything else right then.


	5. Chapter 5

Deep down, Dick has known since the moment he saw Bruce that things weren't going to play out as nicely as he thought. A happy ending where he takes Bruce back to Gotham with him and everything goes back to how it was before was never in the cards.

Bruce is still wanted. Legally, he's a nightmare that can't be solved. So long as he stays dead, the matter won't be brought up again, but if Bruce reappears in Gotham, Pandora's box gets opened.

There's no going back to the life they had before. There's no way to turn back the clock to before Bruce's mask was ripped off in full view of the world.

But it still hurts. He'd been convinced Bruce was alive, and Alfred contacting them had been the proof they needed. When Bruce had stopped responding, it felt like mourning him all over again, and finding out he's alive is just another hill on the roller coaster that's been Dick's life.

Bruce allows the hug to continue for longer than Dick expects, and it's Dick who finally does break it, pulling back to wipe at his face. His eyes hurt. His _heart_ hurts. But there are things to do and stuff to talk about and he can't just stand around hugging Bruce all day.

Or all night.

He's not a child anymore, and he has responsibilities of his own.

"We didn't know you were here," he admits. "But we thought that the cloaking tech was being used here, so I came to... to steal it back." He can't resist squinting at Bruce, sizing him up as he asks what's on his mind. "Did you steal it?"

"Bane got it. I haven't been off the island since I arrived," Bruce says. There's a moment of hesitation right at the start, and Dick can guess why: he doesn't want to place any blame on Bane. He's protective—defensive, even. It's surreal to imagine Bane as Bruce's _boss,_ and yet that seems to be what's happened. Bruce was always so domineering that the idea of him working directly under someone else is surreal.

"And how did _he_ get it?"

"I'd tell you if I knew. Most likely he bought it from a broker. He hasn't given Gotham any thought since I got here—I'd be genuinely shocked if he was involved in the break in."

Bruce seems to believe it, but it's hard to take that entirely at face value knowing they've been working together. Knowing Bane is—apparently—his boss.

"It doesn't really matter," Dick says after a moment. He doesn't know why he's even thinking about it, because it doesn't matter _at all._ Nothing else matters when Bruce is _alive._

How the hell is he going to tell the others? Alfred and Barbara will be relieved, but Jason... he's not sure _relief_ is the right word there. It's all messy and complicated and a part of Dick just wants to lie down right there and sleep.

"I need to tell the others," he makes himself say, and Bruce's face twists.

"The government monitors communication on and off the island. Unless—"

 _"Please,_ Bruce, who do you think I am? Who do you think _trained_ me? I've got the equipment to safely contact the others from here. Untraceable. Fully encoded. It's safe back at my hotel room."

Bruce's face scrunches up, an all-too-familiar look of worry, and then he relaxes. It's unusual, because the Bruce he knew never would have relaxed: he'd have just stayed tense the whole goddamn time like he always did.

"Alright. You should probably get some rest, too. Why don't... why don't we go back to our rooms, get some rest, and I'll meet you for lunch. There's a little cafe near the city center. _Bruja._ I'll get us a table."

"Noon?"

Bruce nods. It doesn't feel _real._ Nothing about the situation feels like it's grounded in actual reality. It feels like at any moment he's going to wake up in his bed back in the manor like everything that's happened was just a bad dream.

"I'm going to... to call them. To give them a heads up. If I just call them and put you on the phone we're going to give Alfred a heart attack, and it's better they hear from me first."

Bruce's look makes it clear he knows what Dick is getting at, but he doesn't object.

They stay where they are a moment longer, and then the spell is broken. It's time to go: time to go back to the resort, to go to a place that feels a world away from the small apartment he finds himself in right then. Dick doesn't make a big show of it, doesn't force a big goodbye. He'll see Bruce the next day, and his head is swirling with thoughts, refusing to slow down.

But he does hesitate at the door, glancing back at Bruce where he continues to sit, lost in thoughts of his own.

"Bruce? Please be there tomorrow."

And then he's gone before Bruce can come up with a reply.

The trip through the city seems to happen in a blink of an eye. Dick remembers almost none of it, moving on autopilot without really registering what's around him. He can't stop thinking of what he's going to say, composing explanations and scratching them out just as quickly. How can he possibly express in words what seeing Bruce in reality felt like? How can he tell them what that _means?_

By the time he's set up the communications array and settled himself in front of it he still doesn't have an answer. He almost puts off calling, but in the end he decides he'll simply trust his instincts.

While the call he makes is to multiple people, he isn't surprised when Barbara is the one who answers. It's audio only to start, and Dick leans back in his seat, taking a deep breath.

"I'm going to need you to sit down."

"Is that a wheelchair joke, Greyson?" She says. Her voice sounds strained, and even if she can't see it, Dick rolls his eyes.

"It's simply me pointing out the fact that at this time of morning you're probably starting the day off with some pull-ups, and I'd rather you be on the ground for this."

Barbara lets out a laugh, and he can hear, however faintly, the sounds of her returning to the ground. She moves across the room, and then the connection transfers to her computer, video finally kicking in.

"You look like crap," she points out. Dick imagines he probably does. In fact, he's pretty sure he looks like he got hit by a truck.

He sure _feels_ that way.

"A lot happened. Where's everyone else?"

He'd prefer not to have to repeat the explanation multiple times, but he probably isn't going to get a choice, and Barbara's slight scowl all but confirms it.

"Tim's asleep in bed, but I can wake him if it's important. Jason's... out, somewhere. Give me a minute or two and I'll see if I can round them up."

The wait is excruciating. Even if it's not even more than two or three minutes, they feel like a lifetime, and when Barbara returns with a sleepy looking Tim at her side it's all he can do not to just blurt it out.

"Jason?"

"Patrolling and out of contact," Tim says, reaching up to rub at his eyes. "I'd _just_ gotten to sleep, Dick."

"This is important."

"Can this not _wait?_ Because—"

"It can't wait," Dick snaps, a bit harsher then he intends. He has to take a moment to calm himself down, taking in Tim and Barbara's alarmed expressions.

He can't drag it out. He needs to just say it. But the tongue feels like lead, the words refusing to leave his mouth. Refusing to let him just say it. He can imagine how they'll react, and it's not possible for him to get it all out fast enough to mitigate some of their reaction.

"Bruce is alive."

He expects the stunned silence, but he doesn't let it linger. Instead, he fills it, the words pouring out now that he's started.

"Something really bad happened with Bruce and he... wasn't himself for a while. He ended up getting rescued by Bane, and now he's living here on Santa Prisca. _He's_ Rojo. And apparently he's spent almost every day trying to figure out how to contact us, or what to say."

Dick's head is swimming. He can't even remember if Bruce _said_ that, or if Bruce just _implied_ it and he assumed that was what he meant.

He probably needs to sleep, but he knows he won't have an easy time of it.

"This is— this is for real?" Barbara looks stunned and nothing else, while Tim's expression flickers instead to disbelief.

"There's no way. There's no way he's working for _Bane_ of all people. It's... god, did you see his face? Maybe it's one of Bane's men pretending—"

"I saw his face. I saw him. He's... I don't even know what he is, Tim. He's definitely Bruce, but he's changed. Something inside of him is... it's different. _He's_ different."

"You're going to have to elaborate."

Dick struggles to do so. It's a feeling more than an understanding, a general sense that the man who was in front of him was different from the man he'd seen last. A new person. Changed in some strangely substantial way.

"He's different," he says instead, because words are failing him and the sun's probably about to rise. "I'm meeting him for lunch tomorrow. Today, I mean. I need to sleep."

"Go sleep," Barbara says. "Get some rest, and we'll... we'll handle the rest. Alfred and Jason, I guess. Maybe my dad."

There's no one else to tell. The list of who can be trusted with such a secret is a small one, and shrinking day by day.

Dick doesn't envy them having to tell Jason _or_ Alfred. Jim will take it alright, but the other two? A nightmare.

"I'm going to bring my stuff with me," Dick says. "If you're around, maybe he can talk to you. I don't know, I'm—"

"Go to sleep," Barbara says. "We'll handle it, alright?"

He goes to protest, but Barbara simply shakes her head and cuts the connection, leaving Dick staring at an error message. It seems to take an extreme amount of effort for him to get the entire setup back into the case it came in, and once it's locked up tight he simply crawls right into bed, still in his clothes.

He'll deal with everything when he feels less dead inside.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some sexual content, and some more references to (past) suicidal thoughts.

Bane is waiting for him when he gets back to the fort.

It isn't a surprise: Trogg's probably already called in what happened, and Bruce is so off schedule it isn't even funny. He should be heading along the east river right then, and instead he's trudging his way back to the fort. Normally he'd be up all night, sleep through the morning, and be up and about through the afternoon.

Normally he'd be waking _up_ at noon, not having lunch then.

But he's always been adaptable, and right then a routine patrol matters less then getting some rest.

Sleep, however, is not in his immediate future, and as much as he once would have, Bruce doesn't dread talking to Bane about what happened. He knows that Bane won't be angry. He knows that he'll have time to explain what happened.

And he knows that whatever he chooses, Bane isn't going to throw him out for it.

Bane doesn't question him right away, instead acknowledging his presence and turning away, heading for his office. Strictly speaking, Bane has two rooms, one a bedroom and one an office, only Bruce has never known him to sleep in the one that has an actual _bed._

Bane told him once that it wasn't his sort of place, and Bruce knows what that means. Bane's never had a _bedroom_ before, never had a soft bed and a place where he can rest. He's not used to it, so the hard cot in his office is easier for him to sleep on.

The one major advantage of Bane's sleeping arrangement is that when they head together to Bane's office, no one bats an eye. Even if they're in there for hours.

Once they're inside, Bane locks the door, sinks down on the edge of the bed, and beckons Bruce over. It's almost laughably easy to sink down beside him, leaning his weight against Bane as Bane wrapps an arm around his shoulders.

Bane has become, somehow, a person that _Bruce_ can lean on for once.

"Tell me what happened," Bane says, reaching up to Brush the hair from Bruce's eyes once Bruce has removed the cowl that hides his face.

"You've already heard from Trogg."

"And yet I have asked you anyway. I want to hear it in _your_ words, not anyone else's."

Bruce doesn't answer right away, taking a moment just to _breathe_ as he soaks in the feeling of Bane's presence, letting the tension ease from his shoulders. He knows it'll return soon, but he only needs a few minutes to pay his piece.

"I found Dick. He's... he's in Santa Prisca, looking for the cloak you bought. He didn't realize I was here, and when I took off my mask, he..."

Bruce can only make a strained noise, unable to put it into words. The look on Dick's face was indescribable, existing in the space between relief—probably that Bruce was alive at all—and anger.

Anger that Bruce had failed to do the exact thing Bane had been telling him to do. Anger that Bruce hadn't _told them._ How many years had he gone not telling people things without consequence, and now the moment he tries to fix things, he screws it up.

"Tell me your next step."

"I'm going to meet him at _Bruja_ for lunch. Noon. We'll talk and then... I don't know." He can barely remember what it is that Dick said would happen. He feels dazed, floating through life, and it's only the feeling of Bane's large fingers combing through his hair that grounds him in reality. _What's the next step?_

"I'll have to... to talk to Alfred and the others. Dick says he has the equipment. Most likely he'll bring it along with him."

"Is it safe to use?"

Bruce nods, because of course it is. It's the sort of thing he'd have used back in Gotham, secure to the utmost degree. At most, the government might be able to detect _something_ , but only if they knew what to look for, and even then they wouldn't be able to get a source for the transmission.

"Then you must decide what you will say now, before you are faced with them and words fail you."

As kind as Bane can be—and he can be kind, no question about it—he doesn't shy away from reality. He doesn't allow Bruce the pleasure of pretending he can just sleep and deal with it all in the morning. He needs to think about it while he still can, because Bane is absolutely right: his words will fail him, looking at Alfred. Even hearing his _voice_ will be too much.

"I don't know what to tell them," Bruce admits, leaning against Bane more heavily and enjoying the way Bane reacts, shifting his body to keep Bruce upright. "I know I've screwed up. I just can't figure out how to say that."

"You say it just like that. You have never been anything other than eloquent with me, after all."

 _That's_ a lie. Bane's seen him flub his words more than once. Bruce doesn't even want to think about the garbage that came out of his mouth when Bane gave him a blowjob for the first time; it would put dialog from a porn to shame.

"It's not as easy."

"Oh? And why is that?"

Bruce doesn't answer. It's difficult enough to come up with an answer for that in his own head, and vocalizing it even more so. Bane lets him rest there, thinking it through, but the answers he comes up with are fragmentary and frustrating.

Bane isn't likely to leave if he screws up. Bane's already seen him at his worst: it's a known factor. The same isn't true for Dick and the rest, though. They don't know how far he's gone, how low he's sunk. They haven't seen him as he was when Bane found him, a shadow of his former self, his eyes glassy and his mind clouded.

Waiting to die, _wanting_ to die, and yet unwilling to actually do it himself.

Bane senses his mood darkening and kisses Bruce's forehead, and Bruce decides that's what he wants: affection, not a mental swirl that will only drag him down. He moves up, straddling Bane's waist, and leans up to kiss him again.

The mask stays on. Even though Bruce has seen him without it several times before, Bane's still hesitant to remove it, and right then Bruce isn't sure he has emotional presence required to help Bane through it, even if it _is_ getting easier each time.

Bruce lets his hands wander down Bane's sides, feeling the muscle there, the familiar _size_ of him. Bane is still larger than him, even completely clean from venom, and it never stops being novel being around someone who dwarfs him. Bruce is used to being the largest person in a given room, even if he doesn't always look it, and the feeling of Bane's hands doing the same as they run down _his_ sides is distracting in its own way.

"You should sleep," Bane points out.

"I'm riled up," Bruce counters. "I'll sleep better after an orgasm."

Bane laughs at that, but there's a hint of red on his neck, his blush creeping down from his face. Bane's gotten more bold in the times they've messed around, but he's still far more shy than Bruce is (or really, than Bruce ever was).

"Let me distract you, then," Bane says.

Given the choice, Bruce would have picked a more comfortable bed, but Bane's will do in a pinch, and he allows himself to lean back as Bane starts to work his way down, rough lips dragging over the flat plane of Bruce's stomach on his way south. Bane is _remarkably_ skilled when it comes to stripping Bruce out of his armor, leaving him only in his underwear in record time, and shortly after not even that. Bruce isn't as young as he once was, but Bane's attention has a way of making him stiffen in record time, and the sight of Bane running his tongue across the head finishes the job, his cock jumping to attention.

"I'm not going to last," Bruce has to admit right out of the gate. Maybe it's weird of him, but he's never had a clear line between different emotions the way he thinks other people are supposed to. If he's already riled up from a fight, it's like he's already halfway there. _Any_ emotionally heightened state works the same sort of way for him, and as agitated as he is, even the feel of Bane's breath on him is driving him nuts.

"When do you ever?" Bane says, and Bruce's face is suddenly on _fire_ as he splutters an attempt at a response that gets lost in Bane's laugh.

The laugh makes it better. Bruce likes Bane's laugh, even though he rarely hears it. The laugh, Bruce realizes, cures all his ills.

"I'm going to finish you off," Bane says, his fingers wrapping around Bruce's cock and giving it a few more measured strokes. "And then you're going to bed."

"You—"

"And then you're going to bed. I have a meeting in ten minutes, and if I let you, you'll keep me here past that."

Bruce wants to argue. He really does. But Bane has always been a persuasive man, and when his head tips down, swallowing Bruce down to the root in one perfect motion?

Well, then he's _really_ persuasive.

Bruce cums hard, his hands resting on the back of Bane's head. He doesn't push, doesn't hold Bane there, just lets his hand remind Bane that he's _there._ Bane told him he liked that once, and Bruce hasn't let himself forget. He holds onto things like that, the little details. Bane is willing to tell Bruce what he wants (or what he _needs_ in some cases), but he's not exactly familiar with his own wants.

Bane's simply gone too long ignoring his own wants and needs, focusing on some big grand _goal_ instead.

Bruce can relate.

When Bruce is finished, Bane pulls off and leans up. The kiss is sloppy, just the way Bruce likes it, and he hooks an arm behind Bane's neck, pulling him gently in closer.

"Stay?"

"You can't get out of sleeping, Bruce," Bane simply chides, slipping free easily. "Rest. I will be there in the morning to talk."

Bruce doesn't want him to go. He wants Bane to stay and distract him and not leave him alone with his own thoughts.

But he doesn't want to say it. He doesn't want to actually have to _say the words._ He wants Bane to just _know_ what he wants and give it to him.

Bane pulls away, and Bruce knows that he'll leave if he doesn't ask. He has to make himself ask. He has to say the words.

But he doesn't stay the words. Bane presses a kiss to his forehead, tells him to get some rest, and then leaves.

Bruce is left alone with his thoughts.


	7. Chapter 7

Despite Dick's concerns, he sleeps just fine. In fact, when he wakes he feels more alive then he has in a long time. Everything feels _right,_ and the tightness in his chest that hasn't gone away since Bruce's mask was torn off in front of a camera is finally gone.

And then he notices it's eleven-thirty and all that goes flying out the window.

He's supposed to be meeting Bruce at _noon_ in a place that is _at least_ twenty minutes away, and the idea that Bruce might think he skipped town is unacceptable. Dick doesn't think he's ever dressed so fast, still pulling his shirt on as he heads out the door, only to have to double back and grab the case with the transmission equipment in it, setting him back another few minutes.

 _Bruja,_ he remembers. _Witch._ A weird name for a cafe, but at least it's distinctive enough that he doesn't forget it. He takes a cab rather than one of the resorts buses, reasoning it'll go faster, but mostly because he's hoping the driver will drop him off closer to where he's going. Every minute that ticks by is a nightmare, and when the clock ticks right past noon he swears his heart's going to burst.

It's ten minutes after when the cabbie drops him off just down the street from Bruja. It's a hole in the wall, somewhere between _intended for locals_ and _intended for tourists._ Not quite as bright and shiny as he'd expect for something intended to draw tourists, but he hears a lot of accents as he stands in the entranceway, scanning the crowd. Probably popular among expats, and people who visit regularly, if he had to guess.

What if Bruce is gone? What if he's assumed Dick's skipped town, and—

He doesn't even get a chance to be properly panicked before he spots Bruce.

He looks, in a word _normal._ Like everything is completely standard and nothing is weird at all. He's at a table near the back, a drink already on the table in front of him, and Dick finds himself standing beside that table before he can even really register.

"B," he says, because the instinct to not just say Bruce's name is an old one that hasn't quite faded. Maybe Bruce isn't even his name here. Maybe he's got some new name that isn't _Rojo._

"Dick. You seem... ruffled." Bruce is squinting at him, and Dick suddenly becomes _very_ aware of the fact that he hasn't showered and probably looks like he literally just fell out of bed.

Which he sort of did.

"Missed my alarm," Dick says, sinking into the seat across from Bruce and setting the case down between his feet to make sure no one absconds with it. "Or didn't set one. I don't remember. I was pretty out of it last night."

"Understandable."

Bruce is silent for a little while, and Dick catches himself just watching Bruce's behavior.

He's different. Maybe that should have been obvious to him from the moment he found out Bruce was alive, but it's hard not to notice it constantly. Every little action is like a red flag, a blatant sign that something is _wrong._ In any other context, he'd assume Bruce had been replaced, but that doesn't make sense in the current situation.

What does make sense is that Bruce has actually _changed._ That he fundamentally is almost a different person.

Or maybe not that far.

He's still Bruce, he's just a Bruce who's been separated from the situation Dick is used to seeing him in. He's no longer Batman. He's not even really Bruce Wayne, beloved son of Gotham. In Santa Prisca he's just a _person,_ and while _Dick_ gets a glance here and there, no one glances to Bruce.

He's just one of them. How often does he come there?

When Bruce speaks, the sound of his voice actually startles Dick, lost in the companionable silence.

"I don't even know where to start. I know I should apologize, but where that even begins is... difficult to ascertain."

The idea of Bruce apologizing almost makes him want to laugh just from the pure ridiculousness of it. Bruce was _never_ the kind of person to apologize. Never. Dick can't even remember the last time he did, even though he's sure Bruce probably did at some point.

He just wasn't that kind of person.

"You kind of threw us for a loop for sure," he admits. "Should we be talking about this here, though?"

"Not in detail. But the owner and staff are sympathetic, so there's minimal risk."

Sympathetic. Sympathetic to Bruce's cause, or to Bane's? That's a constant, ever-present question for Dick, because he's still not sure where the line is drawn, if it's drawn at all.

"Why don't we talk about something normal, then?" Dick says. That seems like a good idea, a simple way of giving him more time to observe Bruce. To watch him as he _is,_ and to compare that to how he _was._

Having a normal conversation, though, is hard. They have little common ground that isn't emotionally fraught or somehow compromising, so after what seems like an eternity of awkward silence, Bruce starts talking about, of all things, a local sports team he seems to be _actually, genuinely familiar with._

Which means Dick has to talk about the Gotham Knights and how _they're_ doing this season, even though he's only half paying attention at most. It makes for an intellectually boring conversation that tells Dick little about what's goign on in Bruce's life, but the food he orders _is_ good, so at least that's a pleasant enough distraction.

But the moment it's done, Dick's all too happy to get out of there.

Bruce, apparently, isn't interested in lingering either, because he pays their tab (Dick only registers he's done so once they're out in the street) and then starts heading away from the city center.

Dick expects another safehouse, or maybe a car. What he gets instead is a bus. A bus filled with _civilians,_ who all stare at him rather pointedly and don't give Bruce more than a second look.

And after that bus (Dick sits in the back, trying not to gawk), there's _another_ bus, only this one's smaller and even more cramped. Dick's wedge in between Bruce and an older woman who keeps looking him over, and he can't help but worry someone's going to recognize him.

He's pretty sure that would be _very_ bad, only Bruce isn't paying it any mind. In fact, he doesn't seem bothered at all until someone approaches him after almost twenty minutes of driving on what has to be the bumpiest road Dick's ever had the displeasure of going down.

"For you," a woman says, pressing a jar of something into Bruce's hands. She's middle-aged, with laugh lines around her eyes, and Bruce doesn't seem to recognize her, even as he tries to return the jar.

"It isn't necessary," he insists.

"It was my niece on _Calle Via_ two nights ago. It is necessary."

She accepts no refusal, insisting Bruce take the jar, and once he has she leaves without another word. Those around them seem to pointedly _not_ be looking, and while Dick doesn't know the context of what just happened, he can guess. Bruce saved her niece, and she's given him some sort of reward for it. Dick can't decide if the woman is somehow connected to Bane and his men, or if it's simply common knowledge in the area who Bruce is.

Both seem _bizarre._ Dick assumed that everything would be a lot more hush hush, and yet...

And yet Bruce seems more _known_ here then he ever was in Gotham.

They disembark at the end of the line, in a small _arrangement_ that's not even quite a village: more like a glorified public transit station. There's plenty of paths leading off from the hub, and Bruce heads down one without hesitation, with Dick following close behind.

They're alone for what feels like the first time for _real,_ and Dick knows it won't last.

"...Anything I should know before we get there? Things I should or shouldn't say?"

"Bane and the others know you're coming. I've already told them... well, more than enough to understand the situation. And..."

The way Bruce trails off is almost _painfully_ important. It's obviously something he's considering saying, so Dick keeps his mouth shut, waiting for Bruce to say it.

"You shouldn't have to worry about saying anything, I don't think."

Which is _obviously_ not what he hesitated about, because Bruce would have no reason to hesitate about that, and Dick doesn't bother to hide his frown as Bruce forges on, seeming to be pointedly not looking at Dick.

He hasn't asked about the others, either. He hasn't asked about Alfred or Barbara or Tim, let _alone_ Jason. It feels like a pointed oversight, and now that he's looking for it, it's becoming more and more obvious to Dick that Bruce is nervous.

Because of Bane? Is Dick walking into a trap and too distracted to notice it?

"What was in the jar?"

"Jam made from tropical sweet potato." Bruce doesn't even have to look. "Popular on Santa Prisca. It's just... a local treat."

Definitely nervous. It's coming through in his voice, and Dick stops where he is. Bruce realizes immediately, stopping and glancing back towards him.

"Dick?"

"You're nervous, and I'm about to walk into Bane's headquarters, and that's like fifty red flags in one. I want to know what's _actually_ going on before I go any farther, Bruce."

Bruce's expression twists, and for a moment Dick thinks he's going to say _no._ Then he relaxes, shaking his head, and lets out a sigh.

"It's complicated, Dick. Everything is... complicated."

"They can't possibly be more complicated then finding out you're alive, Bruce."

That gets a small laugh out of Bruce, and Dick finds himself smiling despite the seriousness of the situation.

"No, you're right. This is... I owe you an explanation, and explaining while we're there... you'll think I'm being forced to do it." He shuffles a bit in place, his eyes roaming around as he tries to explain himself, and Dick simply holds his ground, waiting for an explanation.

"I'm not sure I'll ever be able to really express to you how bad of a position I was in when Bane found me. I was... a wreck. Even calling me a mess is being too gentle. I was..."

The hesitation is there, and Dick can guess, even if it feels like a knife carving through his chest to do so. Bruce was alone. He'd lost the city he'd spent his entire life protecting. He'd been outed to the public after an _extremely_ traumatizing night.

He'd almost become the Joker, the very man who'd caused so much pain and suffering.

Dick can imagine, even if he doesn't want to.

He reaches out, resting a hand on Bruce's shoulder, and Bruce holds his ground, even if he doesn't meet Dick's eyes as he does it.

"I owe Bane more than I can say. He saved me physically, but also... more then that. He helped me realize who I was. He helped me find a purpose. Before, I felt like... without Gotham, what was I? But he reminded me that people need help no matter where you are."

"And now you're working for him." Dick fights to keep the judgement from leaking into his voice, but it's difficult.

"We have a... partnership. I don't work for him directly, but we collaborate. I suppose you could say we have mutual enemies."

"Someday soon, Bane's going to install himself as the head of Santa Prisca. He's going to be a dictator, and you're going to have to decide what to do then, you realize that?"

Bruce's expression twists, and he pulls away from Dick's hand. An uncomfortable truth, then: something Bruce doesn't want to think about. What happens when Bane wins? What happens when he wins because _Bruce is helping him?_

"It isn't like that."

"Bruce, you just don't want to admit that it's like that. But it is. If Bane _isn't_ trying to take over Santa Prisca, what's his endgame, then?"

Bruce's silence is telling.

"I'm not saying you can't feel indebted to him, Bruce," Dick says, reaching out again only to have Bruce step aside. "I just want you to be... aware of this. Aware of all of this. I'll still go and meet him, because you say he's changed, but I just want you to be _realistic._ What are you working towards, here? What are you helping?"

Dick takes it as a good sign that Bruce doesn't try and argue. Even if he's obviously upset—maybe frustrated is a good word for it—he doesn't yell. He doesn't shout. He seems to recognize there's truth to what Dick is saying.

It feels new and novel and a hell of a lot more pleasant than how he was when angry before (the rare times he _did_ get angry, anyway).

"Come on," Dick says after a moment. "We've got to be almost there, right? Might as well introduce me to your new boss."

He starts up the path, lightly elbowing Bruce in the side, and shoots him a wide grin, hoping to get him moving again.

It works, but Bruce's stormy expression stays for the rest of the trip to Bane's headquarters.


	8. Chapter 8

Bane is standing by the door when Bruce appears on the path, followed shortly behind by his guest.

Nightwing. Dick Grayson. It would be difficult, in this day and age, to not know who he is. To not recognize him not only as a man of great skill, but also as Bruce's oldest protégé.

But on a far more personal level, Bane knows that he's something else, too. Something much more important.

Dick is Bruce's son in every way that matters. The son he hasn't seen since he fled Gotham in the middle of one terrible night.

The son he's now so desperate for the approval of.

Bane can see it coming a mile away, so he does his best to appear presentable. The mask, of course, is all but mandatory, but he's slightly more put together than usual when he meets Dick at the door. He's put _effort_ into things, made sure his shirt is straight and there's no stray blood on his hands.

"Grayson," he calls. "I won't do you the disservice of pretending I don't know who you are."

"Polite of you. Suppose I should do the same."

Bane has eight inches and almost two hundred pounds on Dick, but that doesn't stop Dick from sizing Bane up like _he's_ the larger of the two of them.

"Come," Bane gestures behind him, stepping aside to let them pass. "The others are waiting in the war room."

Bruce knows the way. Dick sticks close behind him, not bothering to hide the way he watches Bane. He's wary, and Bane can place no blame on him for it. He _should_ be wary. Bane has done terrible things, after all.

The war room, as they jokingly call it, was probably once a conference room or something like that when the fort was first built. It's one of the larger rooms, with a large table in the middle and a few simple chairs for others. Mostly the stand, and Trogg, Bird, and Zombie are already there, eyeing Dick warily. He returns the favor, squinting at them and sticking glued to Dick's side.

 _Does he understand sign?_ Zombie signs to Bruce. Bane imagines that he must, but he can't say for sure so he looks to Bruce and Dick for an answer.

 _Well enough,_ Dick signs right back.

"Zombie's mute," Bruce clarifies for him. "Dick, you already know Bane. The others are Bird, Zombie, and Trogg. Everyone else, this is Dick, my son."

There's no hesitation when Bruce says it, and that apparently comes as at least a bit of a surprise, because Dick seems to relax slightly after the introduction. He's still blatantly wary of them, but slightly less tense in general, his _place_ in the order of things suddenly established.

"Nightwing," Bird asks. "I remember him."

"And I remember most of _you,"_ Dick says pointedly. "I'm not going to pretend like I don't know who you are."

"This is just introductions," Bruce says, obviously attempting to calm Dick down. "I just wanted you to meet everyone. They are... they're a part of my life, here."

That, too, seems to make Dick relax by inches, and Bane nods to Trogg. The other three excuse themselves, and Bane opts to take a seat on a small stool intended to hold his weight. It makes him look smaller, and he hopes less intimidating. Less like himself.

"I assume your father has told you at least some of what his life is like here."

"He's been light on the details."

Bane isn't surprised by that, and is even less surprised by the way Bruce splutters.

"I didn't want to talk too much while we were out and about. I'll answer whatever question you want—I'm not _trying_ to hide things."

Bane doesn't think Bruce is, but he also knows how Bruce is. Quiet. Withdrawn, at the best of times. It makes sense he wouldn't be so quick to volunteer information. Old habits die hard, if they die at all.

It isn't Bruce that Dick questions, though. He turns to Bane, sizing him up before lobbing a metaphorical fastball at him.

"What's your relationship with Bruce?"

Bane, however, is prepared. He's known what he'd say from the moment Dick arrived on Santa Prisca.

"I was sympathetic to Bruce's situation, and I believed he would be willing to help the people of Santa Prisca. I helped him come up with the _Rojo_ persona, and I've helped supply him with gear. You could say he's something of a freelancer: we work together, but he does not take orders from me directly."

"No."

Bane turns to Bruce. His hands are balled into fists, his expression set, and Bane can't figure out what he's getting at. Nothing that Bane's said is _untrue._

"No?" Dick seems just as baffled as Bane is.

"Bane and I are in a relationship. It's not just a matter of work."

Bane can't believe what he's hearing. He can't believe that Bruce just _said_ it. His chest suddenly feels tight, the world seeming to shrink down to just him and Bruce and the fact that Bruce just _said_ it. He doesn't even register Dick's reaction (probably stunned, he can't imagine it being anything else), just the way Bruce's cheeks flush as his eyes flick over to Bane. He's so tense.

And yet he's said it anyway.

"It's a romantic relationship. We're... involved. No, I'm not being forced. No, I'm not being pressured. Yes, I have real, actual feelings for him."

Distantly, Bane registers that Bruce is probably answering questions. There's probably a conversation happening, only it might as well be happening on the moon for all Bane is getting out of it. He can't even muster the self control to stop him from picking Bruce up, hefting him into the air with a smile on his face.

He doesn't have to be a secret.

Bruce isn't even _trying_ to hide their involvement from his family. He said it right away, within _minutes._

"Let me down," Bruce protests, his voice dropping low. "We're in front of someone."

Bane does let him down, but he makes a point of pressing a kiss to his forehead just the same, watching the way Bruce's face burns.

They're not a secret, and Bane can't think about anything else. What else even _matters,_ outside of that?

"Okay, I was _not_ prepared for that," Bane finally hears Dick say. "Bane? _Really?_ Not someone who is, you know, _not_ a supervillain?"

"Former," Bane corrects. "My days of bothering Gotham's people are behind me. Now, I focus my energy on Santa Prisca. On helping the people here, and freeing them from the people who consider themselves kings. I am doing what I should have done years ago."

"And you're doing it while _involved_ with Bruce."

"Yes."

It feels so strange to say it at all. To just say _yes, he's involved with Bruce._ Yes, Bruce is important with him. Yes, Bruce is a part of his life.

Bruce is important to him, and it feels so _good_ to be able to say it.

"Fuck," Dick mutters, dragging his hand through his hair. "This sure as hell wasn't what I was expecting to talk about when I got here. I don't even... what do I even _say_ to that?"

"Say that you are happy he is happy."

Bane isn't sure what compels him to say it, and yet he does anyway. He understands Dick's hesitance. He understands Dick's suspicion of him.

But Bruce is _happy,_ and that's the most important thing right then.

"I should have known." Dick's voice drops as he says it, his mouth twisted into something that isn't quite a frown. "You were different. From the moment I saw you, I knew something had changed, and it didn't make sense you'd gone through something so traumatic and come out like that. Finding... finding _romance_ would... it would make sense. More sense then that, anyway."

Bane notices the way he says _romance,_ but he keeps it to himself. The room's silent for a moment as everyone digests what's just happened (and what they've just learned), and then Bane clears his throat.

"Would it still be appropriate for the two of you to contact the rest of your family? I understand if you'd prefer to warn them ahead of time." He doesn't want to push Bruce into doing something he doesn't want, and it's an easy way to give him an out without _explicitly_ doing so.

Bruce, however, doesn't hesitate.

"I still want to talk to them. I've... I've put it off long enough."

"Maybe it's better if I don't warn them. Better to just... let you do it yourself, if you feel it's right." Dick's face scrunches as he watches Bruce, and then shakes his head. "Are we just doing it here?"

"Here should be good," Bane says. "No one will bother you, and the room is swept for bugs regularly. You will not have to worry about anyone listening in."

"And you?"

Bane hesitates, glancing to Bruce, and Bruce hesitates in turn, which is all the answer he needs.

Anything less then a _yes, without question_ is a no.

"I have matters which I must attend to. I will leave the two of you to your call. Bruce will know where to find me when you're done."

He excuses himself before he can change his mind.


	9. Chapter 9

Bruce no longer knows if he's doing the right thing. He's pretty sure that going on camera and talking to the rest of the people he left behind is something he should be sure about, and yet his stomach won't stop churning.

He's going to be seeing Alfred. Tim. Probably Barbara.

Maybe Jason.

He still hasn't asked and he's genuinely not sure if he even can. He's not sure if he's strong enough to ask _did you find Jason?_ He isn't even sure if anyone _knows_ about Jason. He knows he said it into the comms, but that evening he was...

He was not in a good place, to say the least, riddled with an infection that would have done so much worse than kill him.

Dick _must_ know though. He and the others must have found Jason. Must have fixed things between them. Everything _must_ be better, because Bruce doesn't know what he'll do otherwise.

He sits on his chair near the table, the laptop set out in front of him. Dick's bustling around setting it all up, and Bruce is left grappling with all the other details. He looks similar enough, he's sure, but his fingers end up combing through his beard without even meaning too. It's nicely trimmed, but none of them (save Alfred) have ever even seen him with one.

"Calm down," Dick says without looking at him. "You're still perfectly recognizable, and the beard looks fine."

Dick can apparently read his mind, but all Bruce responds with is a short huff as he settles back down.

His nerves haven't gone away. Dick would tell him it would be fine even if it wasn't, not because it's a lie but because Dick (and him, if he's honest) know the truth: things will go better if Bruce is calm.

Easier said than done.

"Alfred first," Dick says. "He's the one who's been waiting the longest. He's probably been waiting since the moment he woke up for this."

For _Bruce_ _._ To talk to _him._ To see him again and Bruce can barely _stand_ that. He isn't sure he's ever been so agitated. He's not sure he's ever been so _nervous._

Alfred is his father. He raised Bruce from the moment his parents died. He's been a part of Bruce's life for as far back as Bruce's memories stretch.

And Bruce abandoned him. He let Alfred believe he was dead.

"Calm," Dick says. "I'm going to put you through now."

"Do I have a time limit?" Bruce is praying he does. Anything to give him a way out if things go poorly.

"You do not."

The screen, flashing _waiting,_ suddenly springs to life, and a moment later Alfred is on screen, staring out at Bruce.

He looks so old. He looks like he's aged a decade in the time since Bruce has seen him, like Bruce's apparent _death_ has drained every bit of energy from him. Alfred's eyes are watering as he looks up at him, his voice cracked and broken when he speaks.

"Oh master Bruce, thank heavens we've found you. I was certain you'd been lost, and then when Master Dick contacted me..."

Bruce can no longer see Alfred, his eyes watering too intensely for that. He was supposed to hold himself together, but it's proving impossible. His entire body feels like it's shaking apart, and he has to cover his face, hiding away from the camera.

He can't bear to look at him. Can't stand to see the disappointment he must feel, the grief that's taken its toll. Alfred's been suffering, and it was all because Bruce was too much of a coward to reach out.

"I... I lost your number. I should have called you—"

"Master Dick has already told us, and there will be time for the full story later. Right now, all I want to know is that you're alright."

Alfred sounds so _together,_ and Bruce doesn't know how he manages. He doesn't know how he can just _talk_ like everything is normal. Like Bruce didn't fall apart and abandon him.

"I'm fine," Bruce manages to croak, but even that's almost too much. He has to take a moment to pull himself together, his chest tight and painful.

Alfred gives him the time. Even though Bruce is very aware he has other people to talk to, no one rushes as he triages his damaged mental state, patching over the wounds that time hasn't healed and tries to get on with it.

"I was going to contact you, but I... it felt like giving up."

"Felt like admitting you'd made a mistake," Dick grumbles in the distance, but Bruce isn't sure Alfred can hear him, so he keeps his mouth shut. He's not even sure Dick realizes he can hear him, but he can.

"Tell me what's going on in your life. You're in Santa Prisca?"

Dick's taken the whole _Bane_ thing at least moderately well, but not everyone is going to, and Bruce is more careful with his choices of words second time around. He's practiced.

"I'm on Santa Prisca. I was... heavily—" All his practice buckles under the pressure as he tries to say the words he'd committed too. It's hard, and harder still with Alfred watching him, the old man's eyes wet with tears. "I was... drunk and inebriated and I'd lost myself, and Bane found me in a drug den of some sort and... he pulled me out of it. Helped me get back on my feet. I've been helping the people here. Giving back to the community."

"Should I assume that you're the one going by Rojo?"

Bruce nods, happy he's not going to have to explain that.

"I can imagine your reasons," Alfred continues. "You helped return a young boy to his family, so I won't say a word about taking a dead man's name to do so. I can't imagine that _Bruce Wayne_ doing such things would go over very well."

Bruce can't quite resist a smile at the idea.

"No, I don't think it would."

"And Bane? I can only imagine he's changed significantly from when he was in Gotham, or I very much doubt you would still be working with him."

"He's different." There's no hesitation there. Bane _is_ different. In a way, Bane's is as different as Bruce feels. They've both changed, and he feels like if he looked at himself from a few years ago, they wouldn't even recognize each other.

"Tell me about your life there."

The answer comes easily. Bruce has rarely had reason to talk about his life before, but just this once it feels so easy to do so. To tell Alfred about the work he does. About the people he's found, and the bond he has with them. He'd never have considered Zombie, Trogg, or Bird to be _his sort of people,_ and yet that's what they are. He respects them. He values them.

And they seem to feel the same way. They actively seek him out, just to talk. They include him in group activities, and not just ones that are intended to better Santa Prisca. Some days, when there's little else to do but wait. Sometimes Bird smuggles in drinks, and they watch the sunset from the highest point on the fort.

He barely mentions Bane himself—an active, conscious choice—and yet Alfred, as always, has found a way to sniff him out.

"You love him," he says, even though all Bruce is doing is talking about how Bane acts among civilians. It's supposed to be a way of proving to Alfred that Bane's a changed man, and yet somehow Alfred's gotten so much _more_ out of it.

Bruce is silent. He doesn't know how to respond, because denying it would be terrible, but confirming it feels awful as well. He feels like Alfred should have been _involved,_ as if the older man should have been getting a play by play through the entire relationship, from Bruce's early, stupid realization to their clumsy escalation into a real _relationship._

Instead it feels hidden, and that's what spurs Bruce to answer.

"Yes."

Alfred seems to consider his answer, and then steers the conversation abruptly elsewhere.

"Is Master Dick still there?"

"Here," Dick calls. He's been pacing around the far side of the room, but after a moment he walks over, squatting down beside Bruce to get into view. Bruce shuffles his chair over, and Dick steps off camera to grab a chair. It seems to take forever for them to be setup, and the entire time all Bruce can think is _what if Alfred doesn't approve._

"I assume you were aware of Master Bruce's relationship?"

"Bane tried to play it off as a purely professional relationship, and Bruce stopped him and told me the truth. It was... I know it's Bane, and I know that Bane's done a lot of awful stuff. But Bruce is... he's happy, Al."

_Happy._

It's a word that has so much more _meaning_ to him now. His life before wasn't devoid of joy—far from it, really—but it had always been a happiness that was buried under misery.

Getting to be there for his sons the way his parents never had was a good, joyful moment. Having to run out the moment it was done to stop someone dressed like a sideshow act from killing innocent people wasn't.

And that had been his life.

That had been his _entire_ life, from the bottom to the top. Every part of who he was had been like that.

"Even all the way from England, that much is obvious," Alfred says. He's smiling, Bruce realizes. His eyes are wet, and he's obviously upset, but he's _smiling._ "In all my years serving you, Master Bruce, I don't think I've ever seen you look so unburdened. Clearly, whatever you have with Bane must be working out."

 _Unburdened._ Is that what he is? The more he thinks about it, the more that Bruce realizes that Alfred's right.

He is, for the first time in a long time, free to be himself.

"You should be speaking to Master Tim," Alfred says. "But I fully expect you to be contacting me regularly. I'm certain Master Dick can arrange something more stable then calling than calling a phone number."

"Can do, Al," Dick says, leaning over to be more visible. "Anything else?"

He is going to say goodbye, Bruce realizes. He's going to say goodbye to Alfred, but he'll be able to talk to him again soon.

It won't be forever.

"Miss you, Alfred," Bruce says, his voice cracking.

"I love you, my boy."

"I love you too."

Bruce expects to break down once the transmission's cut, but he doesn't.

He's _free._


	10. Chapter 10

Tim hasn't slept. Really, the very _idea_ of sleeping seems downright preposterous. Within the next few hours (assuming nothing goes wrong) he'll be hearing from Bruce again. He'll probably see his face. He'll find out what's going on, and where he's been, and what the _hell_ he was thinking.

Alfred's already explained the _original_ idea of the plan. He's already explained the reasons he and Bruce left. As stupid as Tim wants to say it is, Tim can't entirely blame Bruce for skipping town without telling them. They're all good actors, but it would be hard to coordinate a believable story on such short notice, and harder for Bruce to slip away if he didn't take advantage of the element of surprise. The joke in Gotham in the weeks that followed the destruction of the manor were that if you lost your keys, you simply had to say that Bruce Wayne was there and everyone else would show up to search for you.

It had been easy for them to act as if Bruce was really dead, because for the most part, they'd believed it. Alfred's reappearance months later had confirmed plenty of long-held suspicions that there was more to it then Bruce wanting to cover up evidence by any means necessary, Bruce's accounts suddenly no longer being accessed had crashed those beliefs through the floor.

Tim was so tired, and the entirety of the previous year felt like a nightmare that would never end.

"Stop pacing," Barbara chided from her spot near the window. "They'll call when they call."

"It'd be nice if they'd call _now_ rather than _six hours from now."_

With no clear idea of when the call would be coming in, they'd had no choice but to wait, and Tim hates it. All his usual patience is simply gone. He could stake out a building for days, but _this_ is torture.

Barbara beckons for him to join her, and after a moment he does, staring out the window as he hovers over her. He knows she's been bothered as well by everything that's happening, but she's handling things so much better than he is.

Bruce is just, in the end, too much of a personal matter for him.

Tim swears his heart nearly stops when the computer chimes, all but tripping over himself as he sprints across the room to pick up. Barbara rolls after him, not nearly as rushed as he is. All Tim can think is _what if I don't pick up in time?,_ only that's a pointless concern because he picks up less than five seconds after the computer starts beeping.

Bruce is there.

Tim's expecting Dick to be the one to pick up and brief them, but no, it's Bruce. Unmistakably, unquestionably Bruce. His hair's different, a bit longer than Tim can ever remember it being, and he looks older, like the past year's aged him a decade. There are lines by the corners of his eyes that Tim doesn't remember seeing, but it's hard to say if that's genuinely new or if they're just something that he's only noticing now that he's been away from Bruce for so long.

Bruce makes a noise like the sound's been punched out of him. His eyes are fixed on Tim's face, and as far as Tim can tell, he's alone in a stone room. There's not much else visible, which should be a relief and instead is just upsetting, because Tim doesn't have a single thing to distract himself with.

"Tim."

"And Barbara," she calls, slipping into place just beside Tim. He reaches out, adjusting the computer's camera to put them both in the shot. "You look a lot more alive then I've been told."

"The rumors of my death were greatly exaggerated," Bruce says. He's clearly trying to lighten the mood, but it's not working, and his half-hearted smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Dick's here." He nods to someone off-camera, and after a moment, Tim hears Dick's voice.

"Just hanging out. Pay me no mind."

Tim does crack a smile at that. Dick's obviously making efforts to give them privacy, but something's probably going on if Dick hasn't _actually_ left the room the way Tim assumes he would have.

"Where are you?" Barbara beats him to it, of course.

"Santa Prisca, which I assume you've heard from Dick already. I am... heavily involved with Bane's forces here. He's been handling cartels, and I've been keeping the government on their toes."

"As Rojo," Tim confirms. Dick passed on as much, and it does make sense once he's had a moment to think about it.

"As Rojo. It's an identity that I'm borrowing, doing what I'd like to think the real Rojo would have approved of. I have to admit that I'm not entirely comfortable using a dead man's name for my work, but... well, I had to make do with what I had. Bane's strong, and he has loyal followers, but he simply doesn't have the resources that I'm used to."

"You're going low-tech?"

It feels good to _talk shop_ with Bruce. It feels like peeling back the curtain to learn about what he's been up to in a way that's a great deal more revealing then simply asking him directly. Tim's pretty sure that if they asked _what have you been up to,_ Bruce would simply have shrugged and said very little.

It's easier to bring things up naturally, and Bruce is all too happy to ramble for a few minutes about the technology they've been working with, jury-rigged from what Bane's managed to buy.

Which is something that he _is_ going to have to ask.

"So you're really working with Bane? Have to admit that feels almost hard to believe. He was... I mean, he's not..."

"What Tim means is that he can't imagine the two of you getting along," Barbara says.

"We worked together before in Arkham City," Bruce points out, and when both Tim and Barbara shoot him _a look_ he demurs. "Yes, we're working together. I know his reputation is brutish, but he's really not that. He's... He's had an extremely rough life, and he's lost himself to both addiction and violence, but he's found a better way now. He cares about the people here, and he wants to do right by them. He didn't force me to join him, or threaten anything at all. He simply explained the situation, and knew that I'd make the choice I did... to help the people here."

Tim turns the idea of Bane over in his head, like re-examining a piece of evidence looking for clues. Nothing Bruce says is wrong: Bane's history is well known, and _an extremely rough life_ somehow manages to understate the special breed of awful that makes up the man's history. Peña Duro is something out of a nightmare's nightmare.

"And you trust him?"

Bruce hesitates, and Tim _knows_ there's something there. He's prepared to go digging, to root around for some great _answer,_ and then Bruce simply pushes past his hesitation and says what _must_ be the root of that pause.

"More than you'd ever expect. He and I are... involved, now. It wasn't what either of us intended, but we... we fit together. Like two pieces who just found out they're from the same puzzle."

Tim can barely hear Dick, his mouth too far from the microphone, but he hears enough to guess at what's being said.

"That was a terrible metaphor."

"I think it was just fine," Bruce mutters, glancing up to where Dick must be standing, and his cheeks actually flush red with embarrassment.

It feels strangely _human._ Tim cares about Bruce a great deal—Bruce was practically his father for a decent portion of Tim's life—but the gesture feels so mundane and normal it feels difficult to reconcile Bruce blushing and getting flustered with the man who made himself the terror of Gotham's criminal underworld.

"You're really... _involved_ with Bane?" Barbara asks. "I didn't know you were interested in men."

"It never came up."

Tim doesn't quite agree on that point, but he doesn't correct Bruce. He's suspected for a while, wondering to himself after a gala where Bruce got a little bit too tipsy for real and kept staring at a particularly good looking man, but he's never thought he'd actually get an answer.

Especially not with Bane. It's hard to even imagine that Bruce would just be _okay_ with Bane, and yet... he is. He's not showing any signs of distress (just the aforementioned embarrassment), and Tim doubts it would be possible for Bane to _force_ him. If he was, Bruce would probably be acting more himself. More of the gruff, normal demeanor Tim was expecting from him.

It's just weird.

"No matter how much we'd like you too, Bruce, I think we all realize you can't just come back to Gotham and go back to how things were, so I'm going to just go ahead and cut right to the core of things. What's the plan, here?"

Barbara's words are a knife to his heart. He _knows_ Bruce can't come back. He knows that fact as a simple, unshakable truth.

But hearing it is something else entirely. Hearing it _hurts._ Things are firmly out of his hands, taken away from him in such a way that he can't even really affect the results. No matter what he says, it isn't going to make much of a difference, if it makes any at all. Bruce will stay gone. The public will continue to think he's dead.

Everyone will simply have to carry on with their lives as if something fundamental and important isn't just _gone._

Grief is a poison, and one that has no antidote.

"I... think I'm going to stay here."

Tim knew, of course, that it would end with that. Bruce wouldn't return. Dick had warned them as much: he'd said that Bruce was _happy,_ although he hadn't explained much more.

Tim knew, and yet hearing it still made things feel impossibly final. It's the nail in a coffin that is painfully literal: they buried Bruce a year ago, an empty box beneath a very real headstone, right beside his parents in the cemetery.

That box will always be empty. No body will ever rest below Bruce Wayne's grave.

Barbara wraps her arms around him, pulling Tim in close, and Tim turns his face away from the camera, reaching up to rub at his eyes.

"I'm sorry, Tim. I wish I'd gotten a chance to tell you about the plan before I left Gotham. I wish... I wish a lot of things. That I'd told you about it when Alfred and I had first put it into place. That I'd contacted you once I was safe and away from Gotham. That I'd figured out what to say and contacted you when I was here. I can't change the mistakes I've made. All I can do is move forward and try and be better. I know I won't be able to return to Gotham, but if you're willing, I'd still like to be a part of your life. To... maybe have you visit, at some point. To see the life I've built here."

Tim tries to pull himself together, but he can't. In the end, it's Barbara who has to answer for him, his face buried in her shoulder as she combs her fingers through his hair, letting him work through his misery on his own time.

"We'd like that, Bruce. We'll be in touch, so don't be a stranger, alright?"

It's Barbara who cuts the feed, leaving Tim lost in his own head.


	11. Chapter 11

Bruce is sure that his exhaustion is obvious, if not only from how he feels, then also from how Dick looks at him once the call is done. He feels like a plant that's been shoved in a dark closet and left to wilt.

"You need rest," Dick says without any sort of preamble. "Like, real rest, not just sleep."

"Probably," Bruce reaches up, rubbing at his temple. He feels like a headache is building there, threatening to put him down for the night if he isn't careful.

Or maybe that would be good.

"You should stay," Bruce says. "We still... I should— _we_ should talk. Talk more."

"I feel like you're going to hurt yourself if you think any more. Not sure about staying, but... might draw more attention coming back here tomorrow."

"There's room for you to stay in. If you'd like, you can have my room."

He's already tipped his hand, hasn't he? He's already said too much. He won't be sleeping in his room. He'll convince Bane to sleep in _Bane's_ bedroom, because that has a bed big enough for the both of them to fit comfortably and that's what Bruce needs right then.

Dick either doesn't notice or is too polite to bring it up, but he nods just the same.

"I'll grab som sleep and catch up with—"

There's a knock at the door, and Bruce pauses, glancing towards it before back to Dick, who nods.

"Come in," Bruce calls, and a moment later Bird sticks his head in.

"Boss is pacing, told him to stop it, but he didn't want to interrupt. You two about done?"

"Done," Dick says, starting to pack up the case. "Don't suppose there's anything to eat around here?"

Dinner's probably long since over, Bruce realizes, and they've both missed a meal. He's not hungry, but that's more nerves then anything else.

"Dinner should be ready about now," Bird says, knocking the knees out from under Bruce's logic. Everything was over so _fast,_ and yet so slow. "You can join us for the meal."

Bruce wants to sleep, but instead he goes with Bird and Dick down to the room that Bird refers to the captain's mess. It's a small room, generally used for war-room style meetings, but they eat there often enough, and Trogg's just arriving with food when they get there. He takes one look at the two of them, and then doubles back the way he came, probably to get more food.

Bane joins them shortly after, and makes little attempt to hide the way he watches Dick through the meal. The entire situation isn't _awkward,_ but it is a shade uncomfortable, and while Bird does a good job carrying the conversation as he asks Dick how he's finding Santa Prisca, nothing of real importance comes up until the end of the meal.

"If it's alright with all of you, I think it would make sense for Dick to stay the night rather than having him come back later. It'll draw less attention."

He addresses it to the group, not to Bane himself, as explicitly as possible. He wants Dick to know that it's more than just Bane being in charge of things. He wants him to know that they talk and discuss.

 _I see no issue with him staying,_ Zombie signs, and there's a general nod of agreement. _I'll make sure a room is ready._

Well away from the men, obviously. There's no discussion about that, because it's simple assumed: Dick won't be exposed to the larger group because there's no way to know for sure that they're all dedicated to the cause. The risk is simply too great that one will sneak off to report back to someone or another.

Bird throws an arm around Dick's shoulder, grinning widely as he coaxes Dick into standing.

"Come along with me, Dickie boy, and we'll show you a good time."

Even as well as Bruce knows Bird, he has no idea what chaos Bird is going to drag Dick into. Probably something Dick's going to pretend to hate and eventually wind up loving.

Bird winks at Bruce as he ushers Dick out the door, and Bruce glances towards Bane, and then the rest.

"I think I'm going to retire early for the night."

There's no question about what he means, and no one bothers to ask as they all rise, preparing to go their separate ways. Some have things to do, but Bruce, at least, can simply retire for the night.

Bane goes with him.

There's always a worry they'll be seen when they go to Bane's room, which is why they so often prefer to go to Bane's office. Right then, though, it doesn't seem to really matter, or at least it matters a great deal less then the idea of being able to curl up beside one another.

That's all that Bruce wants right then.

Bane's room is sparse, but the bed is large enough for the two of them, and not so soft as to make Bane uncomfortable. Bruce sheds his clothes easily, while Bane is still more wary, but after a little while Bane does join him, slipping into bed under the blankets and wrapping his arms around Bruce, pulling him against his chest.

"You are tired."

"I'm always tired."

"You _were_ always tired," Bane counters. "You have been full of energy as of late, and I cannot imagine anyone would know that as well as me, considering the paces you have put me through."

Bruce doesn't try and hide his smile at that. Bane's right: as terrible as he feels right then, he _has_ been doing better. He just has to keep reminding himself of that. Physically, mentally, and emotionally, he _is_ better.

"Tomorrow is another day," Bane says, and Bruce feels his eyes water. It's a mantra he's clung to. Every day is a new one. Every chance a new opportunity.

Bruce leans up to kiss him, and only then does Bane remove his mask, dropping it onto the stool that serves as his nightstand. The other man is a wall of muscle, and it feels as if the only truly soft thing about him is the way he pulls Bruce against him.

He's so careful, as if he thinks Bruce might shatter into a million pieces if he holds him too hard.

"I am worried that tomorrow you will leave."

It startles Bruce just to hear it, because the very idea of it—of him just _leaving_ —feels so absurd. He's happy there. He's _content._ He's found a purpose and people he can be comfortable with, and even if there are parts of his old life that he misses, the idea of going back to who he was—guarding Gotham from the shadows by night and playing socialite by day—makes bile rise in his throat.

"I'm not going anywhere."

"You can make no such promise. Dick is your son. He is family. If he asks you to go with him, you will go."

Bruce has to bite back his answer and make himself _think._ Bane never likes quick answers, and more than once Bruce has shoved his foot in his mouth by speaking on his first instinct rather than giving whatever Bane's said real _thought._

What if Dick did ask? What if he asked Bruce to go back with him, or to go to England to be with Alfred?

Would he leave?

But the answer that comes is the same as his first instinct.

"I would stay. This is home now, and..." He takes a moment, trying to pull his thoughts together, and then shakes his head. "Being Rojo isn't just a hobby. It's important. I believe in what I'm doing. I believe in what _you're_ doing."

He leans his head forward, resting his forehead against Bane's own.

"I'm not going to leave you behind."

Bane's kiss is tender, even if his lips are rough. He wraps an arm around Bruce's lower back, pulling him closer, and Bruce is all too happy to go willingly, leaving no space between them in the end. He contemplates, for a moment, the idea of taking advantage of the proximity, but he doesn't think he'd have the energy for it either way. He has feelings for Bane, and he's absolutely attracted to them, but the longer he sits there, the more he doubts he'll be able to move again that night.

The exhaustion is bone-deep, and sleep claims him easily.


	12. Chapter 12

That night, Dick lays awake in his bed, staring at the ceiling. There's no mystery as to why he's still awake, no question as to what's disrupting his ability to get some sleep.

He can't stop thinking about Bruce. He can't stop thinking about how much he's changed, about how different he is. It's impossible not to think to himself that Bruce is happier there then he was back in Gotham with his _family,_ and wondering why that is leads his mind down dark paths.

He knows it isn't like that. He knows Bruce isn't happy because they aren't around.

But a seed of doubt still exists, planted in his mind a lifetime ago, threatening to bare fruit.

He gets up and goes to wander.

The fort—no one's called it that, but there's no question that's what it is—is largely dark as Dick leaves his room. They've stuck him in a guest room made out of a converted prison block, a strip of rooms made only slightly less menacing by the fact that there aren't any locks on the doors.

Or at least not any he can see.

He's alone as he walks down the hall, finding his way largely by the light of the moon. He can hear noise in the distance, but only faintly. Probably there's some kind of night watch, but they'll be looking out.

No, the only thing Dick has to be worried about are Bane's men. _One_ of them will have been assigned to keep watch on him, and he can only imagine it won't be long before they find him.

So he wanders until they do. He explores the base, all old stone and barely concealed former misery, and sees what there is to see.

No one stops him.

He can't decide if the part of the fort he's in is for the leaders only, or if he's somehow just _missing_ all the people who should be there.

It feels almost too convenient when he heads up towards the rampart and, upon reaching the top, can see Bane standing in the distance. He's looking out over the woods, and Dick can't _imagine_ he can see a single fucking thing with how dark it is.

Which means he's brooding.

How fitting that he's dating Bruce, king of that exact thing.

"Bane?" He calls as he approaches, trying not to startle Bane while in punching distance. Bane doesn't startle, but he does turn slightly, looking towards Dick. Mask on, apparently. Dick actually isn't sure he's ever seen Bane without it—surely he must have had a mugshot with it off, but if he did, Dick doesn't remember it.

"Grayson," Bane replies, giving him a small nod. "I assume you were unable to sleep as well."

As well. Which means he couldn't either.

It's weird to think he has anything in common with Bane, but apparently it's more than he ever would have expected. Things like Bruce, apparently.

"Yeah," he finally agrees. "Guess I was. Kind of expected Bird to be the one keeping an eye on me, not you."

Bane offers a short laugh in response.

"No one was watching you. If you chose to go get lost in the woods, that would be your choice. Someone is always watching the entrance to the sleeping quarters, on the other hand."

Oh. So they weren't keeping an eye on him. They were just keeping an eye on everyone _else._

Dick isn't sure if that's better or worse.

Instead of trying to decide, he watches Bane, taking him in. He's smaller than Dick remembers, which isn't a high bar to pass, considering the last Dick saw of him, he was a hulking behemoth with Titan coursing through him.

But he, like Bruce, is different in other ways. Bane was always methodical, but there's a difference to it now. The aura of menace he had before is gone, replaced with calm determination.

Dick can almost believe he's not planning to take over the country.

"Bruce seems to think you're a good man," he says. "I'm not the sort of person who believes that people can't change or anything like that, but I'm not buying into it like he is. There's an endgame here. Something you're headed towards. And Bruce might believe everything will just be alright if he helps you take down the government, but I don't. Guerillas make bad governors."

Bane is silent beside him, staring out into the distance as far as he can even see.

"I want what is best for Bruce."

"I could have said the same thing," Dick replies. "I'm sure you'll forgive me if I doubt you on that. I just know that someday soon, you're going to end up sitting atop a pile of skulls, in charge of this country, and Bruce is going to have to come to terms with the fact that he put you there."

"I have no intention of things playing out that way. If I can fix Santa Prisca's issues without violence, I will do so."

"You know that isn't possible. You're going to hurt Bruce. No matter what you do, no matter what choices you make, he's going to end up hurt. If you had to pick between your cause and him, you know what you'd pick."

"I would never have to make that choice." Bane's voice is even, and perfectly controlled. "If I had to, if I was made to choose him, he would simply leave me."

That catches Dick off guard. The implication—that Bane would choose Bruce—seems to pass so fast that Dick doesn't have time to think about it.

"Leave you?"

"You may not see it yet, but Bruce believes in our cause. If I were the sort of person who would abandon it just for someone I loved, then he would not love me. Even now, children sit in Santa Carlos's prisons. They suffer for the crimes of their fathers. Maybe, with time and an appropriate pressure, that will change. The government will no longer imprison little boys.

"And what then? Then there will still be adults in prison for crimes their parents did. There will still be adults in prison for crimes their parents did _not_ do. There will still be parents in prison, leaving children behind. Minor crimes will still be punished—"

"I get it," Dick interrupts.

He does.

He'd never given much thought to it. Part of it was lack of time. Everything's happened so _fast,_ but Bane's right: what's happening there is wrong. _Someone_ needs to stand up for the people.

Someone needs to stop them.

And despite his own biases, there's no reason that _someone_ couldn't be Bane.

Dick stares out into the darkness, turning the idea over in his head. The idea of Bruce doing what he's meant to do all along: helping people. Helping people who _need_ it.

"Alright," Dick says after a long moment. "I see the point you're making, and you aren't wrong. This is... things still need to be dealt with. People still need to be helped. It doesn't mean I'm going to just give you a free pass, but..."

"You understand," Bane finishes for him, and Dick lets out a sigh, reaching up to drag his hand through his hair.

"Shouldn't you be asleep?"

"I should. But other things required my attention."

"Well, I'll be going to bed, so..." Dick waves his hand. "Get some sleep... Bane."

Dick isn't sure he'll ever be comfortable with being on a first name basis with Bane...

But he can at least try.


	13. Chapter 13

Bruce doesn't dread the morning. He wakes (for once at a reasonable hour) with Bane's familiar presence there to keep him from sinking too far into his panic. The moment his chest starts to tighten, Bane is there, wrapping an arm around him and planting a kiss onto Bruce's forehead.

"Grayson is still here," he says. "Being fed by Bird."

"If he'd skipped out in the night, I'd have been pretty upset."

It takes a few minutes for Bruce to muster up the energy to extricate himself from Bane's loose grip, but once he is, getting dressed and ready to go is easy enough.

Finding Dick, even more so.

As wary as Dick was of everyone yesterday, he seems to be getting along just fine with Bird when Bruce arrives, chatting away until he spots Bruce coming. Dick leans back in his seat, waiting for Bruce to arrive at the table, and then he glances over to Bird and shoots him what looks like a sympathetic look.

"There's the man himself," Dick says. "I'll see you around sometime."

"I can't imagine you won't," Bird fires back, and then excuses himself to make room for Bruce. It's unecessary—Bruce doesn't have anything to say to Dick that can't be said in front of Bird—but the sentiment is there anyway. Giving them space. Letting them have time to themselves.

It doesn't matter either way.

"I didn't want to leave before you were up, Bruce, but I should be heading back."

Bruce's stomach sinks.

"Now? The day's only just started." He doesn't want Dick to go, even if his mind is pointing out the million different very justified reasons why it would make sense for him to do so. The longer Dick is there, the greater the chance someone will recognize him. The greater the chance his absence will be noted elsewhere.

But a few more hours couldn't hurt, could it?

"Gives me plausible deniability," Dick points out. "Pretend like I spent the night with some attractive local, and everyone just accepts it. If I'm gone that much longer, I lose that. I know you probably want me to stay, but..." Dick trails off, the words unspoken but understood. They can't spend too much longer together without it being a problem. They have to be careful. The most important thing is making sure that Bruce isn't found, after all.

"Should I... expect you back?"

Bruce feels awful just having to ask it. The answer is inevitably _yes, but not for a long time._ There's no chance it will be _no,_ and yet there Bruce is, asking anyway.

"Of course. I'll try and figure it out. Maybe Wayne Enterprises will want to invest in a resort down here, or something like that. Details don't really matter. We'll—"

"Figure it out," Bruce interrupts. He stares at Dick for just a moment, and then reaches forward, pulling Dick into a hug.

Dick returns it without hesitation, and Bruce feels his anxiety fade away.

"Keep the case," Dick says. "I talked with Barbara this morning, and you should be able to set up a regular meeting time with Alfred, Tim, Barbara..."

"Jason?"

They still haven't talked. He still has no idea what's happening. Has Jason even been in touch? Have they told him Bruce was found?

"Barbara talked to him a few hours ago," Dick says. "He was... he's busy. He hasn't been able to—"

"You don't have to make excuses for him. It's understandable that he doesn't want to talk to me just yet."

It feels like a rejection because it is one. Jason could have spoken to him and chose not to. Bruce is sure he has reasons, but it's hard to think of them.

But he can't blame Jason, either. Not after how they parted. Not after how much he's been through. Bruce had thought that Jason was dead, and then Jason had thought _Bruce_ was dead.

The scales are balances and yet they feel more imbalanced then ever.

"Maybe he'll call, or pass a message through Barbara," Dick says, clearly trying to reassure him. "Just try not to stress about it."

"I've got enough to do that I don't have time to stress about anything," Bruce says, forcing a laugh he doesn't feel. He tightens the hug, cementing it for a moment before finally releasing Dick. "Please stay in touch, Dick."

"Don't be a stranger, Bruce. You want to show me the way back?"

"If you want to be careful, someone else might be a better idea," he has to admit. "You seemed to get along with Bird?"

Bird's going into town anyway, and is more than willing to take Dick along. It delays their goodbyes only briefly, but Bruce knows it's time to say a _real_ goodbye when he sees Bane make an appearance. He doesn't approach, giving them space, but when Bruce finally breaks his hug he glances towards Bane, shooting him a questioning look.

He feels like they should at _least_ say goodbye to one another.

"We already talked," Dick says with a small laugh. "Had a heart to heart, you could say. I'm not saying we see eye to eye or anything, but... an understanding."

"Please tell me you didn't do it," Bruce groans, and Dick is the picture of innocence.

"Do what, B?"

Bruce shoots a distinctly unimpressed look at him, and Dick laughs, shaking his head.

"If you're asking if I threatened to hurt him if he hurt you? No, we didn't do that. I think you can both take care of yourselves just fine, and if we're being honest... well, I probably wouldn't be so willing to leave if I thought he'd do you any harm."

So Dick trusts Bane in his own specific way. Trusts him enough to leave Bruce with him, which seems like a fairly high bar considering all they've been through.

Bruce leans in, kisses Dick on the forehead, and then withdraws. No matter how old he gets, Dick is always going to be his son, and nothing's going to change that.

"I'll call you," Bruce says. "Just give me a time, and I'll find a way to fit it into my schedule."

"Your very busy work schedule." Dick grins at him, but Bird's there, and Bane's waiting, and it's already time to go. Bruce feels lke he could drag it out forever, but people are waiting on them.

"I love you, Dick."

"Love you too, Bruce."

And then Dick's gone, turning away to give his attention to Bird as he leaves. Bruce has to fight the urge to go after him, to simply chase him to say goodbye yet again, but then there's the comforting weight of a hand on his shoulder, and he stands his ground, watching Dick go.

"This will not be foever," Bane says quietly. "Just for a while. Someday soon, Santa Prisca will be safe, and you will be able to see them all again."

It's the reminder he needed. The reminder that everything that's happening will one day pass. That things will be better.

That his goodbye is only temporary, even if it feels so permanent.

"Come along," Bane says to him, nudging him back towards the base to keep him from standing there all day. "We have work to do in order to make that happen."


	14. Chapter 14

Letting someone know you're going to commit a crime is a stupid thing to do, and yet it's the exact sort of stupid thing that Bruce specializes in.

There is, after all, something particularly intimidating about it. _Knowing_ Bruce is coming gives the military time to mobilize their troops, to prepare for the battle to come. It lets them get overprepared to the point of complacency.

It gives him an audience, a small army of people who will witness what happens and spread the word.

Bruce's theatrics, after all, are only worthwhile if there's someone there to see him.

Bane worries for him when it's time to go, checking his suit—and the armor beneath it—over multiple times before finally declaring Bruce ready.

"Be safe."

"I'm always safe."

Bruce gives him a quick kiss—just for good luck—and then he's off.

His target is perhaps the most dangerous person he's gone after just yet. While most of those he's targetted have been part of Santa Prisca's government, that night's target is a general, a major centerpiece of the army. The Santa Priscan military have been a major supporter of the current leadership, but have largely remained hands off, letting the police do their work instead.

But with the police starting to collapse, thanks in no small part to Bruce with added pressure from Bane, the military have stepped in to enforce order.

Bruce has other plans.

The general in question is wildly unpopular, hated by almost every citizen of the island, even those who are _also_ in the military. Bruce has heard rumors about attempts on his life, mostly by those whose families have bene hurt on his orders, but it's the most recent rumor which has drawn his attention.

A district attorney whose father was killed for speaking out.

A young man with nothing to lose and a desperate desire for justice in his heart, who's sworn he'll prosecute the general even if it kills him.

It very well might.

But Bruce knows better than anyone that the best change they have of real change is by ensuring that real change comes from the people. The common man. Not from a man hidden behind a mask, living in the shadows.

People like him can only help. They can't be the change Bruce so desperately wants to see.

The problem, of course, lies in the general himself. The odds of him turning himself in are laughable. The odds of him getting caught almost as much. He's more or less locked himself down in his home, coming and going only with an escort, and refusing to put himself at risk.

He's locked down even more since someone wrote _justice is coming_ in red paint on the inside of his door.

Of course, that wasn't Bruce. He hasn't yet been into the house, too overly careful to do something so stupid. But there are people in the general's residence who are sympathetic, if not outright supporters. One of the more brave had been willing to do it, to put everyone in the right frame of mind.

Bruce has to admit that he finds it genuinely funny that for all the extra energy the general has put into his security system, there are still gaping holes. He's the perfect example of Santa Priscan excess: even under threat, he can't stop himself from indulging. There's grounds keepers tending his yard, and custodial staff going in and out. Bruce can think of a dozen ways to get in, a dozen more ways to get out, and a myriad of options for doing what he wants.

But his plan is already selected, taking advantage of plans long since underway.

All Bruce has to do is go through with it.

<hr>

Two hours later, Bruce is dragged through the entrance to the general's study. His hands have been shackled together in old iron cuffs, but for the moment at least he's still in his gear. The people carrying him are counting on the fact that he's already been roughed up enough and won't be able to fight back, the abuse he suffered when he was first captured enough to disable him.

If they were smart, they'd have bound him more securely. They'd have shackled his ankles together, bound his arms to his torso. There are dozens of things they could have done, and they're so arrogant they've done none of them.

They think he's already lost, but they don't know how stubborn Bruce can be.

He's held upright rather than dumped on the floor, which lets him face down the general for the first time. The man's thin, fit, and the perfect image of a military man. He's not just a beaurocrat, sitting in his house and ordering people around: he's seen service. He knows the sorts of things they're doing.

He doesn't have any deniability. He can't pretend like he doesn't know what they're up to.

"Rojo, I presume," the general says, his arms folded behind his back. "You've been a pain in my ass for far too long. Really, the fact that you've managed to get this far is a testament to the police's incompetence. If we'd been in charge of your case from the start, this never would have dragged out as it has been."

He gestures, and Bruce is hauled upright so he's on eye level with the general.

"They thought you were a monster, but you're just a man. Do you fancy yourself a hero? Is that what this is? Trying to be one of those _vigilantes,_ running around in a costume and causing trouble? Do you have a _code?"_

The disdain is dripping off every word, but Bruce says nothing. He was ready for this. He knew capture would involve an excessive amount of taunting. He's had worse, frankly.

"Now let's see who's under the mask."

The general's hand grabs the top of his mask, and in one move, he pulls it off.

What happens next happens so quickly that the entire situation seems to change every blink. Rojo's mask comes off. The general only has a second to process what's underneath—what looks like a human face, but with all the features missing, the mouth, eyes, and nose replaced by blank flesh—before the lights go out.

The man holding Bruce's right arm lets go the moment the light do. It's not a mistake, or even an instinctive reaction; the man's a sympathizer, one of the many in the army who've come to realize what sort of a monster they're a part of. Bruce takes advantage of the surprise immediately, spinning in place to slug the man holding his other arm, and sending him reeling back with a cry.

Every second counts, and Bruce's hands are still shackled together. He has experience fighting like this, but it still limits his options. Taking advantage of the element of surprise are his best odds.

He charges the general. He can tell roughly where the man is from the small red lights on the inside of Bruce's mask, still held in the general's hand. If he was smart, he'd drop it, only things are happening so fast and he likely doesn't even realize what a liability the mask is.

He goes down hard.

The fight is desperate. Even if the general doesn't grasp the full scale of what's happening, only an idiot wouldn't realize the danger he's in. Bruce has to be significantly more aggressive than he usually would. He batters the general's head, aiming to stun but well aware he's likely doing damage. He hates operating blind, and yet he has no other choice. He _has_ to get the general out. He only has minutes.

The general offers a weak resistence, and behind them Bruce can hear the guards calling for him. He snatches up his mask, pulling it on to take advantage of his night vision. At his feet, the general groans, his face a mess of blood. Bruce has probably broken his nose, and probably given the man a concussion, but he can't wait.

He hauls the general onto his feet, dragging him backwards as he navigates from memory alone. It's his first time in the house, but he's memorized the layout from blueprints and photos. That only takes him so far, though: operating blind he nearly screws the entire plan over when he trips over something on the ground, going down hard.

He rolls the moment he hits the ground, picking himself upright. He's sure he dislocates the general's arm hauling him back up, and yet he knows he's running out of time. He can hear soldiers rushing through the halls, and knows that the amount of time he has before they're on him can likely be counted in seconds.

Bruce's escape route is just where he thought it would be: a trash chute in the wall, large enough for a man to fit through. Just large enough for _him_ to fit through, even if it scrapes at his shoulders when he finally does.

The general, of course, goes first.

By the time he reaches the bottom, the general is no doubt banged up beyond all belief, offering only a weak groan as he sprawls in a pile of literal trash. Bruce is more prepared for the bottom, happy for an at least _slightly_ padded stop at the end of the slide. He gives the general a quick once over—his arm's at an odd angle and probably broken—and then simply grabs at his arm and drags him along once more, climbing out of the garbage bin and down into the courtyard.

He doesn't make it far.

The moment he steps outside, a spotlight lights him up, temporarily blinding him, his night vision suddenly useless. He reels backwards, but there's nowhere to go. Climbing back into the bin is just going to make him a bigger target, and hauling the general up will take a significant amount of energy that Bruce doesn't really have. The plan was counting on dragging him _along_ or _down,_ not up.

"Rojo!"

Someone's on a megaphone past the spotlight. His night vision shot, and his eyes blinded by it, Bruce can barely make out the outlines of people along the top of the wal. Was he too slow? Did they react that quickly? Or were they waiting for him, tipped off by his stupid, stupid gloat?

"Put your hands in the air!"

The only reason they haven't shot him is because he's still holding the general, and shooting at Bruce means putting him at risk. Otherwise, Bruce doesn't doubt for a moment that they'd have opened fire, dragging Bruce's corpse out after the fact to put on display.

He makes sure to hold the general closer. There's nothing nice about using him as a human shield, but the alternative involves a lot of bullets.

But the worst part—worse than being caught, worse than how sore he feels, worse than how _awful_ he smells right then, literally covered in trash—is that he doesn't have a plan. There's no one else around to help. Bane and the others are coordinating a strike on the far side of the island, and with so many people watching, he can't count on sympathizers to help him through. He still has his cloak, but using it isn't going to do anything in full view.

The best option he has is pathetic: dropping the general, running, and hoping to escape in the confusion.

But that leaves him _without_ his target. That leaves him—

There's a cry from behind the spotlight. Something's happening, and Bruce can't see well enough to tell what it is. People are moving, but whatever they're saying is being lost as people shout over one another. Suddenly, people's attention _isn't_ on him, and for a moment, he debates dropping the general and running.

Then a body hits the ground somewhere in front of him, the sound clear and unmistakable.

"Find them!" Someone yells. Someone who is, by the sound of their voice, both very afraid and used to having their orders listened to.

And then that same person _screams,_ yelling almost incoherently about their leg, and Bruce moves.

He drags the general with him, knowing that everyone's too busy with the sniper to pay him much attention, and vanishes into the dark.


	15. Chapter 15

Bruce has some guesses as to who the sniper is, but it's hard to know for sure. Bird has some sniping experience, but it's also just as possible that Bane sent one of the actual sniping _experts_ to keep an eye on Bruce. The group has plenty, and letting one of them focus on Bruce wouldn't be too great a thing. It would be a risk, but everything they _do_ is a risk.

Bruce doesn't stop to find out, though. He has to deliver the general, something made significantly easier when he reaches the truck he arrived in. It's a flat bed, one of thousands in use on the island. The kind that almost every ground crew in the city has multiples of.

He dumps the general in the back seat—he's going to need medical attention, but nothing is urgent enough to make Bruce stop what he's doing—and then slips into the driver's seat, ready to get going.

He half expects the sniper to join him, but they don't. If they're smart, they've split off, heading the opposite direction he is, and he'll get to thank them when they're both back at base.

Bruce holds his breath the whole way there, and yet encounters no trouble. He's ahead of whatever counter actions the military might be trying to take against him. He'll have to be more careful leaving the city, but there are discreet ways past whatever checkpoints they might like to set up.

He reaches the office of the district attorney ten minutes after leaving the general's house, and drops the general off there, waiting nearby until the district attorney and his staff take the man inside.

He resists the urge to call police he knows is sympathetic. The less involved he is, the better, and the whole reason he chose the district attorney is because he has the connections to get things done.

Let people wonder how the general got there. Let rumors spread.

But Bruce can't let that overshadow that the general is finally going to be dealt with.

That he's finally seeing _justice_ at the hands of Santa Prisca's people.

He takes the truck as far as it will go, and when the roadblocks become a problem, parks it nearby and leaves the city by less obvious methods. He's sure the men will appreciate Bruce taking the river route, if only because it washes off the worst of the garbage smell. He dips low, nearly completely submerging himself despite the temperature, and slips under the bridge where the military is positioned.

When he emerges from the river almost an hour later, soaking wet and freezing, he's happy to be on his way home. He slogs his way up the bank, exhausted beyond reason, and heads for the pickup point.

Someone's waiting for him there, but it isn't someone he recognizes. They're bundled up against the cold, but Bruce can see the outline of a gun on their hip, and when the figure turns, he can spot a second opposite it. Details are hard to get a feel for in the dim light, especially with how covered up they are, and Bruce doesn't get any warning before they finish turning, revealing a smooth, polished red mask beneath the figure's hood.

"Jason."

The word is out of Bruce's mouth before he can even think about it. He knows, even without seeing Jason's face, who he is. He knows who he is in a way that feels almost fundamental.

He's already failed to recognize Jason once before; he won't let it happen again.

"Bruce."

Jason's voice is warped by the mask, unrecognizable as he cocks his head, watching Bruce's reaction.

"I assume you were the sniper." Simple enough assumption, considering. "That's the second time you've saved me."

And in the same way. Jason saved him on his last day in Gotham, kept him from getting killed by Scarecrow and his men.

Bruce never had a chance to thank him for that, and he's thankful he does now.

"Hard to believe you're here, working with Bane. I had to see it for myself."

Bruce wonders if it's a sign that Jason already has a better work-life balance than he ever did, considering he's willing to leave Gotham when he needs to.

Bruce always hated leaving.

He pauses, and then gestures the way he was heading, watching Jason's body language since his face is hidden.

"I was going back to base. You should come with me. You should—" No, that's the wrong way to put it. "I'd like for you to meet Bane. He's important to me, and..." He trails off, trying to figure out what to say before finally settling on the most simple version possible. "And you are too."

Jason simply stares. Bruce gets the impression he's not even blinking, and every second it drags out, Bruce feels more and more ill.

He _knows_ that Jason will say yes. He knows, without question, that Jason didn't come all the way out here to see him and then leave. He's here to investigate, because that's what they've always _done,_ and yet it feels almost impossible to remind his brain of that simple, stupid fact.

 _It's fine,_ he tells himself, over and over, as the seconds drag on. When Jason finally does reply, Bruce feels like he's aged a decade.

"Alright."

That's it. No preamble, no lead in, no further explanation. Just a simple yes.

Bruce opts to go with the flow, gesturing down the path towards the base, and then starts off.

For once, Bane's intelligence doesn't give him a leg up. No one is there to greet Bruce and Jason when they arrive, slipping into the fort not far from where Bruce spent his time originally. Jason's clearly observing, taking it all in, but he doesn't comment as Bruce leads him to the war room, poking his head in to see who's home.

No one is.

"Damnit," Bruce mutters under his breath. "They're all still out. Can I get you something? Some food? Water?"

"Do you not normally change?" Jason cocks his head, watching Bruce for signs of _something,_ but Bruce can't imagine what.

"Normally, but it matters less on this side of the fort. No one's going to see me, but I might as well."

Jason trails Bruce to his quarters, where he peels off the outer layer of his armor, carefully setting it aside to be washed. The smell of trash is mostly gone, but it could use some extra scrubbing for sure.

Bruce glances back to Jason, looking his armor over in turn. Much less involved. More... direct. Body armor with an aesthetic that wouldn't look out of place on the streets of Gotham. The only thing tha even marks him as a vigilante are the gloves (a bit too tactical), and the helmet (a bit too supervillain).

Well, that and the red almost-a-bat symbol across his chest.

"There are springs downstairs. Not quite a hotspring, but approaching that sort of thing. It's where we normally wash."

"I'll pass."

Jason doesn't seem interested in taking off his armor, so Bruce offers a shrug and heads instead to the shower, rinsing himself off and changing into normal clothes before joining Jason in the hall.

"It might still be hours before they get back," he points out. "Food?"

Jason doesn't seem interested, but that doesn't stop Bruce from guiding him to get some anyway. He makes a plate for himself with what they have, and then a plate for Jason, and then takes a seat and waits for Jason to join him. He does, sitting across from Bruce, but the helmet stays on, the food untouched.

He is being sneaky, he realizes a moment too late. He wants Jason to remove his helmet, only rather than _asking_ he's putting Jason in a situation where taking it off would be natural. He isn't sure if Jason realizes that and is refusing to remove it out of principle, or if he simply doesn't want to remove it while in Bane's headquarters.

Bruce doesn't want to be sneaky. If he wants something, he has to say it. If he needs something, he has to tell people that.

"I was hoping you'd take off your helmet," he admits after a moment. "It's been a long time since I saw your face."

Jason doesn't react for so long that Bruce assumes he isn't going to, and turns his eyes away, starting to eat. He's midway through the meal when Jason finally _does_ react, reaching up, pressing what Bruce assumes are latches on the side of the helmet, and then pulls it off, revealing his face.

He looks even older than Bruce remembers. Everything that's happened to him—all the trauma, and all the exhaustion—have etched themselves onto his features.

None more literally than the _J_ branded on his cheek, a constant and inescapable sign of what he went through.

And yet he's still alive. Still healthy. Still _there._

"Jason," Bruce says, the word slipping out despite all his intentions. "It's good to see you."

Jason makes a small huffing laugh.

"All that time apart, and I get a _good to see you?"_

"I'm not good with my words," Bruce says, and Jason seems genuinely surprised by the admission. Not that he doesn't think it's true, but that he's surprised Bruce was willing to say it. "It's something I'm working on."

"Funny, everyone always said Bruce Wayne was a master orator."

"Being able to make a speech isn't the same as being able to _communicate._ I realize now how much I struggled with that, but realizing it doesn't fix the issue. It doesn't make what I did okay."

Without the mask, Bruce can see Jason's face clearly. He can see the emotions that ripple across Jason's expression, a mix of confusion and disbelief that eventually terns to his usual stony expression.

"Dick was right."

Bruce makes a noise, unsure of how to even answer that. He doesn't know what the hell that _means._

"Dick said you had changed, and when I asked him what the hell that meant, he told me that explaining it wouldn't help me understand. He was right. You _have_ changed."

"For the better?"

Bruce hopes so. He hopes it's a _good_ change. He thinks it is, but just because he feels positively about it doesn't mean that everyone else will agree.

"...For the better," Jason agrees after a moment. "You're less... bottled up, I guess. I can actually read your face, rather than the stony expression."

Bruce instinctively reaches up, rubbing his hand over the lower half of his face, and then catches himself and stops.

He hadn't thought about that. About how his emotions showed on his face... or didn't, apparently.

"You've changed," Jason repeats. "I don't know what I was expecting, coming out here. I didn't give it a lot of thought. But you... you are different. You're the kind of person now I wish you were years ago."

Bruce's reaction is a roller coaster as he struggles to understand how he feels about that. Happy that he's better? Sad that he disappointed Jason in the past?

All of the above?

"I'm trying to do better," he finally says. He thinks that's the best possible way he can sum it up, really. "To be the man that you would have wanted when I first adopted you."

Jason, to Bruce's _immense_ surprise and confusion, laughs at that. Bruce flushes with embarrassment, averting his eyes and trying to get himself back under control. What the hell does that _mean?_ Why would he laugh?

"Don't do that," Jason says, and he sounds so much more relaxed than he's been the whole time. "When I was a kid, I'd want you to be the perfect Batman, and you know what? I was an idiot. That was your problem, Bruce. By the end, you were just Batman. You weren't really Bruce anymore—he was gone, killed off so you could focus on your _cause._ You gave everything to Gotham, and it took everything you had."

Jason reaches out, tapping Bruce right in the center of his forehead, and it takes a lot not to flinch away out of pure instinct.

"Feels like I'm meeting Bruce Wayne for the first time."

Bruce doesn't know why that makes him feel as good as it does, and yet he finds himself smiling just the same.


	16. Chapter 16

Bane is in a mood to celebrate when they get back to the fort, and he isn't the only one. With the mission a resounding success and completely wrapped up, Bane has only one thing on his mind.

Finding Bruce to check in is harder than expected, though. He isn't in the office, but his armor is in his room, waiting for cleaning, which means he's back. It's actually the others who find him first, with one of Bird's sparrows finding him and guiding him back.

Bruce is in the war room, apparently having just finished food.

But he isn't alone. There's another man there, sitting across from him. When Bane arrives, he turns, and the recognition is instant.

Jason Todd. Recognizable, if not from his appearance (because Bane hasn't seen him since he was very, very young), but from the large J brand on his cheek.

Bruce has barely spoken about what happened his final night in Gotham, but what he _has_ mentioned has painted a cruel, painful picture for Bane. Jason Todd, his son, back from the dead. The Joker taking Bruce apart from inside his own brain. Scarecrow, peeling his mask off and leaving Bruce bare to the world.

It's a raw, painful memory that Bruce clearly prefers to avoid thinking about as much as possible.

And now Jason's there, in front of him.

"Bruce," Bane calls, studying Bruce's body language. Tense, but not as much as Bane expected. A normal amount of tense for someone introducing their significant other to family. A lesser amount of tenseness for what the situation actually is.

"Bane," Bruce calls back, flashing Bane a smile that softens Bane immediately. He wouldn't be smiling like that if the situation was as serious as it looks. "Did you succeed?"

"Of course!" Bird jumps in, only to get a dirty look from Trogg and Zombie, who proceed to remove him from the room without a word from either.

They're right to do so. Being in the same room as Jason feels different from being in the same room as Dick. Jason isn't quite openly hostile, but he's more openly wary, still in his armor even though Bruce has gotten rid of his.

Bruce's relationship with Dick is also a great deal more clear. Bane knew what to expect with the two of them, because no matter how Bruce felt about it, Bane had faith that the people who Bruce cared for the most would care for him in turn.

With everything that's happened to Jason, Bane doesn't feel like he can be sure of that.

"I should introduce myself properly," Bane says, offering a hand to Jason once the others are gone. "Bane."

"We've met," Jason says, but he doesn't take the hand, eyeing it warily. Bane doesn't leave it hanging—the moment it becomes obvious that Jason isn't going to take it, he lets his hand drop, eyes sliding over to Bruce. He looks uncomfortable once again, and clears his throat, glancing between the two of them.

"I'm not sure how much Dick passed on to you, Jason, but Bane and I—"

"Are involved," Jason interrupts. "He told me."

"Does he know you're here?"

"Barbara does. Dick will find out from her at some point or another."

Bane knows that Barbara and Jason work together, and he's done his own research into the Red Hood of Gotham. Enough to know that he likely told her he'd be out of town so that she didn't try and hail him and thought he was dead, but from what little he does know, Bane suspects Jason didn't actually say _I'm going to Santa Prisca._ He suspects that Jason said _I'm going to be out of the country_ and let her guess.

Jason is, after all, the most like Bruce was.

"I could give you the tour, but I don't think it's that interesting," Bruce says, his eyes still flicking between the two of them, even though Bane knows he should just be focusing on Jason right then. "It's hard to know where to start with talking, either. Bane is... he's important to me. Bane saved me, and at first I felt grateful, but instead that's become... something else."

He looks to Bane for help finding the right word, and even if Bane knows it—admiration—he doesn't think it's appropriate for him to say, so he leaves Bruce hanging.

The moment Bruce, in turn, realizes Bane isn't going to give him the answer, he huffs, turning his attention properly to Jason.

"I can imagine at least some of you would have had concerns I was brainwashed, or that I felt obligated, and it isn't like that. Bane's been nothing but a gentleman about everything. He was hesitant to get involved, while _I_ was the one who insisted on going ahead."

Bane makes a noise—that isn't how he remembers it at all—but Jason talking cuts Bane off before he can go down that line of reasoning.

"It's not that I was concerned about," Jason says flatly. His tone has an edge to it, as if Jason's prepared for an argument. Bane hopes it doesn't come to that, but he braces himself either way. "I wanted to know what had happened to your code."

Bruce goes stiff, perfectly still where he sits. Bane regrets that he didn't sit already, because sitting now would be awkward, and looming over the two of them is only less so.

The code. Bruce's legendary and yet completely awful _rules._

No killing is the big one, of course, the one that stands well above the rest. But it's only a small part of a grander whole, something that Bruce had used as a shield to protect himself.

 _I'll be alright as long as I stick to these rules,_ he must have thought.

He wasn't, and whether or not the code had kept Bruce going longer than he otherwise would remained unknown.

Bane didn't think they'd ever get an answer for that, either.

"I realized... I was mistaken," Bruce says, uncommonly frank even compared to how he's been in recent months. "The code was mine. It was how I kept _myself_ in check. But forcing it on others and trying to judge them by it... A lot of people are dead because of that. Because I drew a line in the sand and said that not only would _I_ not cross it, but that no one else ever should either."

It's the first time Bane's heard him admit as much. It's always been something Bane believed—he can barely even imagine what Gotham would look like if Bruce had killed the Joker (or, at a minimum, allowed him to be killed) much earlier—but hearing Bruce say it feels jarring.

He's forcing himself, Bane realizes. These are thoughts Bruce is having, but isn't quite willing to vocalize, and he's forcing himself because Jason is there.

He's baring his soul and laying it out for judgement in the hopes that it will pass muster.

In hopes that Jason will look at him and say _yes, this is enough._

Jason, however, simply stares at him, his face an impassive, inexpressive mask. It's the same face that Bruce used to wear when he had the cowl on, the expression that betrays nothing of what's going on in his head.

It's clearly a private discussion, a matter between the two of them, and yet Bane feels compelled to step in just the same.

"Bruce has changed a great deal since he arrived... although truly, I believe that the change happened before that. He had realized his mistakes during his final night in Gotham, and he spent the next few months stewing on them, letting the weight of his failure drag him down. It is only recently that he's managed to drag himself back to the surface. He is still reassessing, for him, what is right and wrong. But he realizes that the black an white manner which he regarded things before was foolish."

Jason stares at him, almost unblinking, and Bane meets his gaze.

He isn't done, after all.

"Your father is a good man, who has done great things. He is here now not for me, but because the people of Santa Prisca needed someone to help them. He saw the injustices happening here, and he acted to help. Regardless of his code, or the finer points of his ethics, Bruce is driven first and foremost by his desire to help people. To see wrongs righted. That is, at his core, who he is."

For once, Bruce isn't blushing at the tiniest sign of a compliment. Instead, he's staring at Bane, his mouth slightly open, watching. Taking it all in. Accepting what he's just heard.

And when he does finally open his mouth to speak, Bane braces himself.

"I don't know if I'm ever going to be able to stop myself from blaming him for what happened."

Jason's words are more violent than any blow could ever be. They're an axe blow, taking Bruce off at the head, hurting him where he's hurt the most.

Yet Bruce holds his ground. It's clear he's hurt, but he doesn't turn away. He simply accepts what Jason is saying. Jason, however, recognizes that hurt, and he replies in turn.

"I'm not saying that to hurt you, Bruce. I know that you want me and you to... to fix this mess we're part of. But I wanted to set expectations. This isn't going to be like it is with Dick. I'm not just going to be happy to have you back and then it's all fixed."

"I didn't think it would be," Bruce says immediately. Probably too hasty—he sounds desperate because he is. "I just... I'm just hoping for a chance."

"That's what this is, Bruce. This is me... trying. Giving you a chance. Coming out to meet you and your new _boyfriend,_ a man you wouldn't have tolerated being in the same room as a few years back. And you have changed. I just... am going to need to get used to it."

Bane feels like he shouldn't be there. Maybe he should have stayed outside and let them talk more before he introduced himself properly like he did with Dick. All he can do is stand there and watch, keeping his mouth shut for once.

"You can have all the time you need," Bruce says. "And you'll always be welcome here. Maybe sometime soon, Santa Prisca won't need Rojo. Then I'll have a house, and you'll be able to come visit, and it won't be a... a fort in the middle of the woods."

"That'd probably be more comfortable in the long run."

It seems to take Bruce a second to recognize that Jason is joking, but when he does he offers a little smile.

"The beds aren't exactly soft, here."

Bane huffs, and that gets a _real_ laugh out of Bruce.


	17. Chapter 17

Things are easier, after that. Jason's less tense, and Bane himself seems less like he's planning to bolt. He joins them at the table, and when a sufficient amount of time passes, Zombie and the others return with fresh food for all of them.

"I hope you didn't eat anything Bruce cooked you," Trogg says with a shake of his head. "It's alarming how a man can be so smart, and yet be unable to do even simple tasks."

"I can cook!" Bruce protests, face getting red with every word.

 _He managed toast, once,_ Zombie signs, and Jason crackes a small smile at that.

Trogg's food is much better, and Jason's helmet stays off. The others talk about Santa Prisca, and the things that Jason should or shouldn't see. There are sights, of course, but many of htem are public, and difficult for someone like Jason to visit right then.

He, after all, is as much of a wanted man as Bruce is, only the J on his cheek makes him that much more distinctive and easier to notice.

"We have the best beaches," Bird brags. "I don't know which ones Bruce took you to when you were younger, but you wouldn't _believe_ the crap some people claim is the _world's best beaches."_

"You would know, of course," Bane says with a smile of his own. "How many beaches have you been to?"

The answer, of course, is _very few,_ which is why Bird changes the subject.

The food is indeed better than what he made, and Bruce eats it without complaint. Trogg is no Alfred, but it's still good, home-cooked food. Jason seems to enjoy it too, actually saying as much as the meal wraps up.

It feels good. Good and normal and... and _good._

"I'm happy you're doing alright," Bruce says after a moment. "And that you're getting alone. Dick was... hesitant when he first arrived."

"We won him over eventually," Bird says with a laugh. "Don't think he'll forget that night for a long while. Jay here staying?"

They all look to Jason, and Jason takes a moment to finally respond.

"I can't. You're too far into the woods, and my way off the island is leaving first thing in the morning. Getting back to Gotham isn't as easy as hopping onto a plane."

He has a good point. Dick can _legally_ come and go, but Jason can't. He has to be careful.

"If you would like, we have an apartment in the city you could stay the night at," Bane offers. "It is unused right now, specifically intended for situations such as this."

Bane glances to Bruce, and Bruce nods instinctively. He isn't even sure if it's a _is this alright with you?_ or a _is this safe?_ , but it doesn't matter: either way, things are fine.

"Alright," Jason says. "Bruce can show me."

It's as clear a _just the two of us_ as Jason can manage without actually saying _and no one else is invited,_ and Bruce picks up the cue, turning to Bane and nodding.

"You were thinking the green one?"

"It is closer to the airport, assuming he's flying out."

"I am," Jason confirms. "Just not a commercial flight."

 _Then the green safehouse would be ideal,_ Zombie signs. _There is easy access to the commercial side of the airport._

"And you, Bruce?" Bane asks, turning to him. Asking him if he'll be home that night.

"I'll stay nearby. Check what people are saying about my job tonight... and about yours."

"Be careful."

Instinctively, Bruce reaches out, resting a hand on the back of Bane's own, and the smile Bane gives him damn near melts his heart. It's enough to make him second guess his earlier thoughts—that a lot of people have issues with public displays of affection, and him doing anything with Bane would probably be too awkward for Jason—and he leans in, giving Bane a quick peck on the cheek before withdrawing.

"How chaste," Jason comments immediately. "For you, anyway."

So much for Bruce showing off his self control.

They leave the fort not long after. It's long, long past dark, edging into the early morning, but the sun hasn't quite shown its face just yet. Bruce has the walk to the bus memorized, but he has to make his movements obvious to let Jason follow him in relative silence. The bus runs infrequently so late at night (Bruce considers them lucky it runs at all), which means more of a wait, and in the end it takes the better part of an hour before they finally reach the safehouse, little more than a one room apartment deep in the city.

The city is surprisingly peaceful, though. No signs of checkpoints. No signs of trouble. Whatever is happening, it isn't happening there.

Or maybe his charade work, and they _do_ think the general was taken by an angry wraith.

Either way works just fine for him.

"It isn't much," Bruce explains as the enter the—of course predominantly green—apartment. "But there's a bed, and you can rest here until you need to go. You can lock the door from inside, and just leave the key on the desk—we have spares."

Jason doesn't head towards the bed. Instead, he turns, staring at Bruce for a long moment without saying anything. He is being scrutinized, Bruce realizes, but realizing it doesn't make it easier or more comfortable.

"Dick tried to warn me, but he didn't mention all your friends," he finally says. It catches Bruce off guard, largely because it's such a non-statement.

"Is it that surprising that I... have friends?" Bruce says, more a stab in the dark then anything concrete. He doesn't understand what Jason means.

"It is."

Ouch.

"Don't get me wrong," Jason says, waving his hand. "You had people in your life. But almost everyone you encountered... well, you had your sons. Your proteges. Your allies. In every case, you put yourself above them. You felt obligated to protect them. Like, sure, that makes sense with someone like Dick or me, but even someone like Jim Gordon... you had to do what was necessary to protect him. You _always_ took that burden on yourself. You refused to let anyone else shoulder it. And it ended up with you feeling completely alone. You're different with them. Not just with Bane, but the others, too—you don't feel like you have to protect them."

Bruce wants to deny it. It feels like the sort of thing that he _should_ deny, that he should yell _that isn't true!_ at and refuse to even discuss.

But he sees the truth in it, whether he's willing to admit to it or not. He sees what Jason means, and thinking back to his relationships in Gotham, the pattern is undeniably there.

He'd all but shut out Dick and Tim his final night in Gotham. He'd kept them in the dark so long, and it had nearly killed him. He'd kept his secret from Jim Gordon for so long that he'd found out with the _public_ who Bruce really was. Maybe he'd suspected, but Bruce should have told him the truth long, long before.

But he hadn't.

Because, exactly like Jason said, he'd felt like he _had_ to protect Gordon.

Like he was the only one even capable.

"It's a good thing," Jason says, thrown off by Bruce's enduring silence. "It's... you've improved, Bruce. You've changed a lot. You're a happier person. A better person."

It feels good to hear Jason say it. Just hearing it at all would be good enough, but hearing it from _Jason..._

And yet Bruce knows it has to be a two-way street.

"You've changed too, you know. Finding out that you'd... well, taken over as Gotham's protector felt strange, but at the same time, it felt right. You were always as dedicated to Gotham as I was, but you were more..." He struggles for the word just for a moment. "You were more composed about it. I should have listened to your opinions more, because I don't think there can be any real question that when it came to the people in Gotham who needed help the most... well, you understood them better than I ever could, and more than I ever really tried to."

They stare at each other then for a long moment.

And then the dam breaks. Bruce doesn't ask, and Jason doesn't either, and they universally—at the same exact moment, even—come to the same conclusion.

They hug, and to Bruce it feels like what he's been needing. It isn't going to fix everything between them, but it's a start, a clear and obvious sign that things _are_ going to be fixed.

Bruce just needs to give it time.

"Don't be a stranger, alright?" Bruce mumbles into Jason's shoulder. He's not sure when he buried his face there, and yet he did anyway. "Barbara can contact me any time. I'm sure she can find a way for you to do the same."

"I'll figure it out," Jason says.

Neither of them are in any hurry to let go, so they simply linger there until Bruce's arms start getting sore, and even then he's reluctant to let go.

It feels like letting go again, and he hates the very idea.

He doesn't want to ever let go. If he had a choice, Jason would just stay there and find a place in Santa Prisca, only he knows it's a stupid, unrealistic idea. Jason wouldn't be happy there. The fact that Bruce is even happy there feels like a miracle.

And Jason has his own city to go back to. He has people waiting for him.

"I didn't apologize to you," Jason says, and that's surprising enough that Bruce breaks the hug, pulling back just to gawk in absolute confusion.

"For... what?"

"Bruce, I tried to kill you." Jason is frank, and right then he seems more confused by Bruce's reaction than anything else. "I was going to burn the whole damn city down, if that was what it took. I only _barely_ made efforts to stop innocent people from getting hurt."

"I lived," Bruce counters. "And you can't apologize for it anyway. You were brainwashed."

"I should have realized the damage I was doing. I should have—"

"You didn't make those choices on your own. You didn't decide to do the things you did without being lead there. You apologize for your _own_ choices, and what happened that night wasn't your choice. The only choice that was really, truly you that night was at the very end. You chose to save me, rather than running away. You could have done anything, and instead you chose to come back and help."

Something inside of Jason—something that has held strong the whole night—seems to break, and Bruce finds himself in a hug again, this one as tight and desperate as any hug has ever been. Bruce buries his face in Jason's shoulder, and he knows that no matter how stiff or uncomfortable he gets standing like that, that he's going to stand there until Jason finally does have to go.

He owes it to himself, after all.


	18. Chapter 18

Solving a problem as endemic as corruption in Santa Prisca isn't something that happens overnight, but at the same time it feels important to recognize the victories as they come.

The general gets prosecuted. It seems impossible, and yet there are a series of _strangely fortunate coincidences._ A military unit sent to retrieve him find their weapons fail them as if they've been sabotaged. An attempt to kill the general before he can talk is countered by a civilian who happens to be ex-military. A cache of 'misplaced' evidence is found on the district attorney's desk.

Things work out, and a man who's ordered more people killed than he has letters in his very long full name faces justice.

He is only one cog in a larger machine, though, and there's more work to do.

The next few months are a lot of that. A lot of victories mired only by the knowledge of how much more work there is to do. Victories in battle, where they manage to bring down a force that has them vastly outnumbered and outgunned. Political victories, where they manage to sway people to their side, or get them replaced entirely.

And moral victories, the ones that are the most important of all.

Bruce isn't sure anything is ever going to compare to the relief of finally cracking open one of Santa Prisca's prisons and finding a dozen children inside, safe but scared. Of finally getting a change to make things right, bringing them all home to their families. To people who care.

It feels good.

And every step, things improve for them. They have more and more supporters, and more of them are in a position where they can actually _help._ An entire military unit defects when sent into the jungles to stop Bane and his men, joining them and increasing their manpower exponentially. A local politician announces that his town is a safe zone for Bane and his men after Zombie saves the man's daughter.

Their momentum continues to increase, and the tide continues to turn, but in the end it isn't anything they do whhich proves to be the final crucial victory. It's something the other side does, a critical mistake that they don't even seem to _realize_ is a mistake.

A member of Spanish royalty visits the island on his honeymoon while touring the world, but through some minor infraction—the soldier insists he tried to start a fight, while the royal insists he simply asked the soldier to step aside so he could pass—ends up in jail.

And then, someone up the ladder seems to realize tha having a _foreign royal_ in their prison is a bad idea...

...And vanishes him.

It's the stupidest thing they could possibly do, and it's only through Bane's swift intervention that the young man is kept from being tossed off a cliff to the sharks below. Bane bundles the man up safely, deposits him on a flight out of the country, and that's that.

Or that's what he thinks. Neither he nor Bruce expect much to come of it—the man's something like seventeenth in line for the throne and far from being a big shot—but they haven't taken into account his sway socially. Rather than counting himself lucky, the man starts making a big, big stink. He lets the whole _world_ know what happened to him. He shows off bruises and cuts from his cruel treatment. He talks about fearing for his life.

And he credits his survival entirely to Bane.

To Bane, it was just any other operation, just one of dozens he's carried out while working to dismantle the cruelty of Santa Prisca's prisons.

And yet in the end, it's that one simple operation that wins everything.

Someone—Bruce suspects someone from Gotham in particular—leaks a great deal of information about Bane to the public. While none of it was private or even realy hidden, most people simply didn't _know_ what Bane's history was like. They didn't know he grew up in one of Santa Prisca's prisons, or what he endured there. And suddenly _everyone_ knows, and Bane goes almost overnight from a former terrorist and very dangerous man to an object of admiration. Some glorify him for surviving at all. Others celebrate his clear attempts to improve his home country, even in the face of such clear and intense resistance by the government.

Sanctions are brought down. There are discussions from multiple countries about intervention. Bane's against any sort of foreign intervention—as far as he's concerned, the victory needs to come from within Santa Prisca—but the pressure is enough to crack one of the government's ministers.

He turns, taking a deal to testify in exchange for sparing himself the fate of his former allies.

In the days that follow, the arrests seem endless. Every day, the newspaper reports more and more, save for one day when there's no newspaper at all because the lead editors been arrested for _his_ involvement.

Bruce stays out of it. Bane's still at least nominally active, making it clear to others that he's keeping an eye on things, but Bruce knows he has no part in this. Saving people is one thing. Helping what amounts to a coup is something else entirely.

It isn't his place, and Santa Prisca, he's convinced, doesn't need his help to manage that.

Almost two weeks after the minister flips, someone comes to Bane's base and asks to speak with him. Someone official, who is acting in an official capacity. It's strange, but almost inevitable: any outcome that didn't involve Bane having to take things over himself would have to end this way.

They have to pardon him and his men. They have to recognize what they've done. If not, they'll find themselves trapped between two impossible situations. If they don't bring Bane into the fold, he'll be a constant danger, a problem in every way.

Really, the only genuine victory is that they're willing to do so early, rather than waiting for things to calm down first.

The deal they make is simple: Bane comes out of the forest with his men. He rejoins society. They are pardoned for what they did, the past slate wiped clean, as recognition for the people they've helped.

Then there will be talk of what comes after.

Bruce isn't there for the meeting, but he is mentioned—however roundabout the manner. Bane simply says that many of his men have discarded their old lives, taking up new names and existences. Returning to their old ones wouldn't be acceptable to many, and at least a few—himself included—more or less don't even exist in Santa Prisca's system.

So when the deal is signed, Bruce simply becomes one of the many taking that choice. He gets to pick a new name, and despite spending what feels like a lifetime of debate, the answer comes easily.

_Bruno Marta Tomás._

Maybe a bit on the nose, but he'll have to make do.

"What about you?" He asks Bane as they fill out the paperwork. "You'll need to pick a last name, I guess. It could be anything."

"Diego."

Bruce startles, double taking at Bane as he waits for an explanation. Bane doesn't look up, a tension in his shoulders as he continues to write. "The last time we attacked Pena Duro and took their files, I looked. My mother was Teresa Diego."

"Your father?" The records must have mentioned him, since it was his sentence Bane was serving, but Bane only grunts.

"Better not to speak of him. If he still lives, it makes no difference to me, so I will take my mother's name."

Bruce, who's taken both of his parents names, can only nod. It isn't something he'll ever understand, and truthfully it isn't something he _wants_ to understand. Bane's relationship with his family—which is nearly non-existent—isn't for someone like him to really _get._

"Bane Diego," Bruce says. Truthfully, he thinks it sounds silly, but Bane always will.

Which is a whole other question.

"Why Bane?" He asks after a moment. "Why not something in Spanish, like..." He trails off, trying to come up with a word, but every translation he can think of, every equivalent of Bane, is a _feminine_ noun.

"There is nothing deep to it," Bane says simply. "Bane simply sounds more intimidating. More like a name to the prison guards, who were those I wished to bring terror to. I considered _temor,_ but that simply sounded like a word, not a name."

Oh.

And of course Bane has to hammer the point home even harder.

"Batman is clearly a name, for example. _The Bat_ is less so. More ambiguous. So here you are, Batman."

"Doesn't work for _Rojo."_

"That is a name, so of course it doesn't."

Something about the whole conversation, the mundanity, makes Bruce lean up instinctively, pressing his lips to Bane's. HIs hand wraps around Bane's back, holding onto him for support as he stretches up, and then Bane's arm does the same to Bruce's back, keeping him upright and returning the kiss in a manner so soft that Bruce would have a hard time believing someone as big as Bane could even manage it if he wasn't already so familiar.

"You should move into the city."

Bruce blinks up at him, surprised, but he doesn't ask _why._ He can figure it out for himself. If he moves in before the rest, it'll draw a line in the sand, and make it less likely he'll be recognized. While they haven't explicitly discussed it since everything has happened so fast, Bruce knows that Rojo is going to be retired. The name's done it's work, and Cristian Rojo deserves to rest, rather than becoming his home's perpetual boogieman.

Maybe Bruce will take up another mantle one day, but a part of him hopes he won't have to. A part of him hopes that _Bruno_ will be able to help in other ways.

He always felt he could do more for Gotham as Bruce Wayne, but with no one else around to help with the cities more violent elements, he'd had no choice.

Now he does.

"You'll come visit?"

"When I can," Bane agrees, offering another small kiss. "What will you do with all your spare time?"

Oh god. Bruce doesn't even want to _think_ about how much spare time he's going to have. Apparently his horror shows on his face, because Bane laughs, shifting to kiss Bruce's forehead instead.

"You will find something," Bane insists without even the tiniest shred of hesitation. "You will find a path which will bring you joy, and when you do, it will make you happy in a way that being Batman never did."

Bruce can't even imagine what sort of thing that might be... and yet he knows, without question, that Bane is right.

He'll find something.


	19. Chapter 19

Alfred has never been to Santa Prisca before, but there's a first time for everything, and he's looking forward to it just the same. Despite Dick's concerns that he'll be stopped at the airport, his ID raises no red flags.

Alfred Beagle, after all, is his real name. It's the name he discarded when he left England all those years ago, and one that he's taken up once again with the help of some old work friends. The gap in his life has been all but erased, and while it's _theoretically_ possible someone would make the connection between Alfred Beagle and Alfred Pennyworth, the odds are poor, and steps have been taken to minimize the chance.

Which is why Alfred's arriving alone, two days _after_ the rest of the family has arrived. Sure, they're staying at the same resort—one that was supportive of Bane even before things played out as they did—but that can be chalked up to a coincidence.

Most of the time they'll be spending together will be behind closed doors, after all.

He deposits his luggage at the resort, and takes a shuttle into the city. He knows just where to go, but it still feels surreal to walk through the part of the city that is so obviously populated by locals. He knows he sticks out, and yet when he asks for directions, the people are friendly enough and point him the right way.

And then, turning a corner, he finally sees him: Bruce.

His son.

He's recognizable to Alfred, even more so because he's finally shed the beard he was using to hide his identity, but Alfred doubts anyone _else_ would look at the man in front of him and thing that they're looking at Bruce Wayne.

After all, Bruce Wayne wouldn't be caught dead in coveralls, up to his elbows in an engine and soaked in grease.

"Alfred," he calls, looking up when he hears someone approaching. "You're early. I thought I had a bit more time."

"The plane landed a bit early, and I thought I'd stop by and see your place of work. Do you... own this?"

Alfred looks around, taking it in. It's a garage, effectively, and little else—a space to work, with only the tiniest of offices for paperwork.

"Rent it," Bruce explains, grabbing a rag to wipe down his hands. "I'll need to clean up before we go. Did you want to come see my place?"

Alfred does. He really, really does. Bruce slides the engine back into the garage and locks up, and then his home is only a short distance away. It's a modest place, not much more than a bedroom and a main room with a kitchen that Alfred looks at with intense suspicion. Really, the only thing of particular interest in the apartment is the sheer size of the bed, which has to match the size of Bruce's old one in the manor. It looks comically oversized for the small space, but there's little question as to _why_ the bed is so large.

"Is it just you here?" Alfred asks. "I didn't ask what I should call you, either."

"Just me," Bruce confirms. "Just give me a moment."

He ducks into the bedroom to shower and change, and Alfred heads to the kitchen.

He's pleased to find a whole variety of high quality teas waiting for him, and there are clear signs that Bruce himself has been enjoying them as well.

By the time Bruce emerges from the bathroom, he's cleaned up considerably. He's traded his work clothes for jeans and a t-shirt, still extremely casual for Bruce Wayne, but apparently perfectly normal for his new persona.

"I didn't answer your question, did I?" Bruce asks. "Everyone just calls me Bruno, but you can call me what you'd like. Bruce would... probably be a poor idea, though."

"Bruno is just fine." Alfred doesn't see a major issue with that. A name is just a name, and Bruce is, after all, still Bruce. He's still the same man, no matter what people call him. "I must admit I assumed that Bane would be living here with you."

"We considered it," Bruce admits. "But he has a lot of things to deal with, and for obvious reasons, my connection to his group can't become public knowledge. And..." He trails off for a moment, his face flickering through expressions, and then finally finds the right words. "If I'm being honest, it works for us right now. Maybe sometime soon Bane will be able to formally retire, but for now it's giving me a chance to have a life outside of him. It was hard meeting new people at first, but now that I have a space of my own... well, not as difficult as I first imagined."

"I must admit when you said that you were a mechanic, I didn't quite believe it. Or, I suppose I assumed you meant you were a mechanic working for Bane, helping him with tanks or who knows what. Having you working on car engines out of a rented garage is... something quite unique. A novel concept."

"That was a tractor engine, actually," Bruce says with a laugh. "There's a lot of older equipment that hasn't seen proper maintenance and needs attention, so I try and help with whatever people bring me. Lots of... research to figure out how the older equipment works, if I'm being honest."

"A bit rudimentary compared to something like the Batmobile."

"A bit _inventive,"_ Bruce counters with a laugh, and the laugh is so light and _free_ that Alfred feels his heart soar. "You should see some of the solutions people have rigged up to keep the equipment running, even when it's long past the date it should have gone to the scrapyard."

"You sound like you're enjoying it quite a bit."

There's no question about that. Alfred can barely remember a time when Bruce looked so _relaxed._ So at ease, both with himself and his position.

"It seems like you've found a place for yourself, Mast— Bruno."

Bruce plays self-consciously with the hem of his shirt, his eyes wandering.

"I have," he says after a while. "I just hope that I get to keep you and the boys as part of it, even if we're far away."

"Of course." There's no hesitation when Alfred says it, not even an ounce of consideration that it might be anything but a yes. "I'm not sure you have enough power to get rid of me, after all."

They leave not long after, heading to the resort to meet with the others. Dick—technically the richest of all of them—has rented out a significant portion of the resort they're staying at, giving them some much needed privacy.

Bruce has obviously already met the others before, because while they have a happy reunion, it isn't the tears and hugs Alfred would have expected. Those instead are reserved for him, with both Tim and Dick pulling him into overly tight hugs like they're afraid he's going to vanish.

Jason lingers on the corners of the room, and Alfred is pleased to see Bruce breaking off almost immediately to go speak to him. It isn't for almost an hour before Alfred gets a chance to see Jason, to pull Jason into his arms and hold him for the first time in years.

Bane and his men—or Alfred supposes they aren't quite _his men_ any longer—come later. The meshing of the two groups is not instantaneous—Bane is overly wary of Barbara, as if he fears that he might harm her by accident, until she sets him straight—but Dick seems to get along just fine with the one who goes by Bird, and eventually Tim winds up in conversation with Zombie, and then everything seems to mesh so much easier.

It feels like home, even if it isn't. Being surrounded by those he cares about gives Alfred the calm he needs to take it all in, to observe how things play out. To watch how comfortable Bruce is, how at ease he remains even surrounded by men who were once his enemies.

It is also obvious to Alfred how much he cares for Bane. It's the soft little touches, gentle and affectionate, that Bruce uses to call Bane's attention when he needs something. It's the way that attention is returned to him, with Bane deferring to Bruce if he isn't sure.

It's a relationship of equals, something Alfred has never seen Bruce experience before.

And even if Alfred will go back home when the weekend is over, he knows they'll stay in touch, and he knows he'll be able to rest easily knowing that Bruce is happy.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains (a lot of) sexual content.

Bruce does not go back to his apartment that night. It's been a long, exhausting day, and there's a room already ready for them in the resort, one for each of them, but when Bane joins Bruce in his, Bruce seriously doubts anyone will complain about his room going unused.

The bed is big and soft, and it feels right when Bane joins him in it. For once, the mask comes off, folded and placed neatly on the side table without protest.

Bane is nothing if not gorgeous. Someone once called Batman a _wall of muscle,_ but that person had obviously never seen Bane. Bane has a way of making Bruce feel small, and when he wraps his arms around Bruce, Bruce simply leans into it, letting himself be pulled against Bane's chest.

"Your family is very sweet," Bane says, and there's a sort of melancholy to it, because Bane knows that Bruce will never meet _his_ family. If any extended family still live, they're so distant they might as well not count in his mind.

Not so in Bruce's.

"They seemed to get along with yours fairly well. I think Dick's more friendly with Bird than he likes to admit. Acts like he doesn't think much of him, but the moment he had a chance they were chatting like old friends."

The surprise on Bane's face doesn't last, but it's sweet while it does. Genuine shock that settles into acceptance as he realizes what it is that Bruce meant: that Zombie, Trogg, and Bird _are_ his family.

Because they are. They've been with him for so long. They've supported him, and he's supported them in turn.

They're his family in every way but blood, and blood ties have never mattered much to Bruce at all.

Bane presses a hand to Bruce's cheek, tilting his head to allow the kiss, and Bruce presses his body tight against Bane's, eager for friction. He's all riled up already, and Bane is...

Well, he has a tendency to go slow. Very slow. Too slow for Bruce's tastes, his own hands already dragging across Bane's sides, feeling the muscle there.

"You don't have to be so gentle," Bruce complains. "I'm not some fragile thing that's going to break."

"You are more breakable than you will ever admit," Bane murmurs, pressing a kiss to Bruce's temple. "Better to go slow and be safe than to risk breaking you."

"You won't."

He changes things up then, rolling Bane onto his back, the blankets an absolute mess around them as Bruce straddles Bane's hips.

It's easier said than done, because Bane is nothing if not broad. Just resting atop him feels like climbing a mountain, and Bruce places his hand flat against Bane's stomach as he shifts around, reseating himself into a more comfortable position. Straddling Bane, staring down at Bane's flustered face, Bruce makes up his mind.

"I'm going to ride you."

Bane winces.

"My heart, it will not fit."

"I've practiced, I've stretched, and I've spent far too long being told I can't, because it's not possible. I've managed everything else I set my mind to, and this won't be any different."

Bane makes a noise that definitely isn't a word, but at least is smart enough not to protest as Bruce leans over, holding tight to Bane with his thighs as he digs out the bottle of lube.

 _Saying_ he's going to do it feels very different from actually _doing_ it though. As convinced as he is that he'll be able to take it, Bane's dick is something else.

Intimidating, even.

Even half-hard—and Bane is _far_ from fully hard—it's a sizable thing, impossible to completely take his eyes off of, even as Bruce drizzles some lube onto his hands. As confident as he is, he knows he'll need to stretch himself out, and while working one finger in isn't bad (or particularly difficult, for that matter), one finger isn't going to cut it.

Nor is two.

By the time Bruce gets up to three, he's feeling the stretch, and he knows that won't even be _close_ to enough. He tries changing the angle, doing what he can to relax, but he startles when Bane's hands suddenly rest on his thighs, helping lift him up.

"Turn around," Bane says. "Your fingers are too small to comfortably stretch yourself like that."

Bruce huffs, but does as Bane's asked, getting up and turning around. He settles himself on Bane's hips, and then second guesses himself, shifting a bit so that he has full access to Bane's cock.

Well, even if three fingers wasn't _nearly_ enough to stretch him out, it had other advantages; Bane's hard, his cock standing at attention as Bruce rocks his hips forward, letting his own cock rub against Bane's.

One wet—and yet still massive—finger presses against his hole, trailing a slow circle, and Bruce shivers despite himself, biting at his lip.

Bane is a big man, and his fingers are no exception. It feels larger than two of Bruce's own as it presses in, and Bruce feels a wheeze get punched out of him as he leans forward, instinctively moving away. Bane's other hand rests on Bruce's hip, holding him in place as he works the digit in.

"You must take a deep breath if you wish for this to work," Bane says. "But if you would prefer not to..."

"Don't even try," Bruce snaps, and then just to emphasize the point, rocks his hips back, pressing Bane's finger farther in. This is familiar territory to him, something they've done before, just not with the intended end game. A second finger is—very carefully—added, and Bruce tries not to lose his focus. He reaches down, wrapping a hand around both of their cocks, and then ruts against Bane, trying to distract himself from the insistent pressure in his ass as Bane works him open.

"I still do not believe it will fit," Bane protests, but he keeps working at it, spreading his fingers as Bruce tries to distract himself with the feel of Bane's cock, big and weighty between his thighs.

It's a very good distraction, but still not enough. It feels like Bane takes forever just working him open, but he does it so smoothly that Bruce doesn't realize that a third finger is added until Bane clicks his tongue, his fingers slipping from Bruce's hip to trail down his back.

"Perhaps," Bane finally says. "Perhaps you will find a way to make it fit."

"Okay," Bruce snaps, trying not to sound _too_ impatient. "That's enough stretching."

If he doesn't get Bane in him soon, he's going to lose his mind.

He turns around so that he can face Bane properly, happy for the more comfortable position, one that will be easier to work himself down on. He makes a point of leaning forward, kissing Bane just to ground him in the moment, and then straightens up, stretching his arms to make sure he's ready.

His brain may be ready, but Bruce isn't sure his _ass_ is.

"Careful," Bane chides quietly, and Bruce simply grunts, lifting himself up and getting into position.

Spearing himself on Bane sounds like a very appealing and sexy idea. It also sounds like a good way to end up in the hospital. Even as stretched as he is, he's going to have to go _slow,_ lowering himself down until he can feel the size of Bane's cock as it presses up against him.

"We can still choose to do something else," Bane says, reminding him of his options, but Bruce simply ignores him, biting his lip and starting to press down.

Bane is big. By far the biggest thing Bruce has ever had inside him, but the feeling of pure bliss (helped in no small part by the endorphins from _finally_ doing this) that he gets when the head of Bane's cock pops inside are like nothing else. The feeling of it—just one small part of Bane's whole cock—is like nothing else, and Bruce has to stop himself, his weight resting on his hands as he presses them against Bane's chest for support.

Bane makes a choked noise, speech seemingly beyond him, and _that_ drags a moan out of Bruce, his entire body shivering. It takes them a few seconds to come back to themselves enough, Bane's hand reaching up to run across the inside of Bruce's thigh, a contented noise in his throat.

"You take me so well. I did not think we would ever have a chance..."

"You should have known when you started dating me that _can't_ isn't in my vocabulary, Bane."

Bruce never gives up. Certainly not over something like _this._ Not when there's such a lovely and very tangible prize waiting for him at the end.

Considering himself stretched enough—even though he probably isn't—Bruce starts to press down. It's not a comfortable movement, but there's a joy to it anyway, a feeling of being _full_ in a way that he's never felt before. His fingers (or even a toy) simply don't compare, but Bane's size extends beyond his cock. Bane _himself_ is large, and Bruce leans his weight against Bane for support, letting him feel that size for himself.

It is comforting, in its own way, having Bane there.

"I do not think it will all fit," Bane says, but the effect is lost in how high his voice is, like he's struggling just to keep himself under control, his hands hovering over Bruce's thighs as if he wants nothing more than to dig his fingers in and jerk Bruce down. "You should—"

"Quiet," Bruce hisses, because he's rapidly reaching the point of being overwhelmed, and Bane's voice is only making it more difficult to focus on keeping himself upright. Normally he'd _love_ to hear Bane talking about what Bruce is doing to him, but the risks are too high when Bruce is having to be so careful.

Bane, obligingly, is quiet. He allows Bruce to slip down, taking inch after inch, and even without talking, the way Bane's eyes are watching him is _distracting._

Bruce squeezes his eyes shut, focusing only on the feeling of it. On the way he's being spread open, on how _deep_ Bane is.

And then, entirely without realizing how far he'd gone, Bruce's thighs hit Bane's own.

He's fully seated. He swears he can feel Bane's cock just behind his belly button, but it's _in._

It feels way too big. When Bane moves—really, it's not even a true movement, just a small flex of his thighs—Bruce goes cross-eyed, letting out a wheeze. Even the tiniest movement feels massive, and he's right about to beg Bane to stay still when Bane catches on, shifts his hips _just_ so, and rubs his cock right against Bruce's prostate.

Bruce sees stars. His hands grab Bane's sides, holding on for dear life, and it's a _struggle_ just to get the words out.

"Stay. Still."

Bruce apparently sounds serious enough that Bane doesn't even _speak,_ staring up at Bruce in rapt attention. Bruce prefers it that way; Bane looking _up_ means he isn't looking _down_ at the way Bruce's cock is leaking from overstimulation. He stays as still as he can manage, his hands holding his weight as he rests against Bane, his muscles threatening to lock up if he stays there much longer.

And it still isn't enough. Bruce swears he can feel Bane's _heartbeat_ through his cock and it's driving him absolutely nuts.

Even being completely motionless isn't enough. His heart feels like it's about to burst out of his chest and he... he needs it. He needs to go even though it's already too much, so he simply lifts his hip, every nerve in his body lighting up.

He's going to cum and he'd like to at least last a _few_ thrusts.

Bane murmurs something so soft and desperate and _sweet,_ even if Bruce can't hear the words, and then he seems to catch on to what Bruce is up to, his arms coming up to wrap around Bruce, pulling him in tight as he adds his own momentum to things, bouncing Bruce on his lap like he weighs nothing at all.

Bruce swears he blacks out, just for a moment, when he cums. The intensity is like nothing else he's ever experienced, the feeling of being _full,_ of Bane being so deep inside him.

He's not sure he's ever going to feel as full as he does right then.

When he opens his eyes, Bane's still inside him—although he's not as full, which tells him Bane's probably gone or is going soft—and he's resting against Bane's chest, limp and struggling to even _imagine_ moving. Bane, on the other hand, has different plans, and he carefully shifts, pulling himself out with a wet noise that leaves very little question about if Bane enjoyed himself.

"I missed your orgasm," Bruce mumbles into Bane's chest, and Bane laughs, wrapping an arm around Bruce's shoulders.

"You will have chances to see many more," Bane points out. "I cannot imagine you would be satisfied with just this once, after all."

"Absolutely not," Bruce says with a small laugh, turning his head to let it rest more easily against Bane. He can _hear_ Bane's heartbeat now, rather than just feeling it, and there's something so soft and relaxing about it. About the fact that he's _there._ "I don't think I tell you enough how important you are to me."

"You tell me more than enough, my heart." Bane's kiss is just as soft as he usually is hard, and Bruce melts into it, resting against Bane completely.

It feels good to be held, to rest, and to know that no matter what, Bane will still be there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for coming along on this wild ride.
> 
> What's next?
> 
> Well, we'll see tomorrow when I get back to writing.


End file.
